


It Was a Wednesday

by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anxiety, BAMF Stiles, Broken Stiles, Broken Stiles Stilinski, Darkness Around Stiles Stilinski's Heart, Derek Hale Leaves, Derek Hale Leaves Beacon Hills, Derek Hale Returns, Derek Hale Returns to Beacon Hills, Derek Hale is Stiles Stilinski's Anchor, Don’t copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Feral Behavior, Feral Stiles, Feral Stiles Stilinski, Fighting, Forced Fighting, Hunters & Hunting, Hurt Stiles, Hurt Stiles Stilinski, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Stiles, Injured Stiles Stilinski, Injured/Wounded, Kidnapped Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Magic, Magical Elements, Meeting Again, Non-Human Stiles Stilinski, Non-Sex Slave Stiles Stilinski, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Scars, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Spells & Enchantments, Stiles Stilinski Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Stiles Stilinski Has Scars, Stiles Stilinski is Property, Torture, Violence, Werewolf Stiles Stilinski, Witches, Wolf Stiles, Wolf Stiles Stilinski, emotional torture, werewolf Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-10-31 09:46:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 80,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17847098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wasterella/pseuds/isthatbloodonhisshirt
Summary: “What happened? Where are you? What’s that sound?”Derek jumped, having momentarily forgotten Scott was on the phone with him because Stiles had started moving. He’d stalked over to the other side of the cave, still eying Derek warily and growling, then settled protectively over a mass of clothes, leaves and animal innards. It was probably where he was sleeping.Lovely. No wonder he smelled like death.“Stiles,” Derek said, answering Scott’s question. Or, one of them, at least.“Stiles? What do you—Stilesis making that noise?”“Yes.”“Why?”“How fast do you think you can make it to the south lot of the Preserve?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Teen Wolf (c) Jeff Davis 
> 
> Fair warning, Stiles is very not okay in this fic, and lots of bad shit happens to him. Nothing sexual, but if you are uncomfortable with physical and emotional abuse, this is not the fic for you. 
> 
> Also, I have never seen past season four, so I know bits and pieces of later seasons, but I don't know the new Packmates, so I pretended they didn't exist in this fic.
> 
> Thank you to Adara who has the unenviable position of constantly listening to me whine <3<3

Derek Hale remembered everything about that day. He remembered the date and time. Where he was and what he was doing. What he was wearing.

He remembered it all.

February 24th, ten forty-seven at night.

It was a Wednesday.

He was in the Whiskey Thief Tavern on Davis street in Evanston, Illinois. He was playing pool with some people he’d met a few days back. He had a Corona in his left hand and a pool cue in his right.

He was wearing his usual black jeans, a grey T-shirt and steel-toed boots. His jacket was in the car parked out back.

He was winning.

He’d been taking a sip of his drink when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Setting the cue against the wall, he dug it from his jeans and flipped it over to see the caller.

The second he did, he froze, staring at the name. He hadn’t seen that name on his screen in a very long time. He hadn’t ever thought he’d see it again, not since he’d left.

For a few rings, he debated whether or not to answer. He didn’t know if he wanted to. They hadn’t split on good terms, and even now, seeing the name blinking at him was making his chest ache. The pain he felt was a monster in his gut, clawing at his insides to get free.

He forced it back viciously, took a breath, and answered right before it was about to go to voicemail. Putting the phone to his ear, he tried to think of something to say, but nothing came to mind. He was completely blanking and so, he said nothing.

It didn’t matter. The person on the other end spoke first.

_“Hello Derek.”_

That wasn’t the voice he’d been expecting to hear when he saw that name on his screen.

“Sheriff,” he said automatically, moving away from the game, even as one of the men called after him that it was his turn.

He felt a different beast rearing its head at the sound of sheriff Stilinski’s voice. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to hear from him, it was more that his gut knew he wouldn’t call unless he had to. His stomach was already in knots, but his brain hadn’t caught up on the panic yet.

 _“I know you left everything behind you,”_ the sheriff said quietly as Derek exited the pub via the back door, moving to his car and leaning against it, focussed entirely on the older man’s voice. _“I know you did what you had to do for your own benefit. I don’t blame you for that. I’ve never blamed you for that. And I wouldn’t call you unless—”_ His voice broke and the knots in Derek’s stomach twisted horribly. _“I have no one else. I can’t—Scott isn’t good enough.”_

Derek felt like all the noise around him had disappeared. He felt like he was standing alone in a dark room, knowing something was coming for him, but unable to see or hear it. It would just _be_  there. Suddenly, horribly, and unwelcome.

“Sheriff, what happened?” Derek knew there was only one reason that name would appear on his screen with another person speaking down the line. He knew, logically, what was wrong, but his brain refused to believe it. Because it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real, and it _wouldn’t_  be real until he heard the words.

They came, even though Derek begged for them not to.

_“Stiles is missing.”_

It felt like the ground had fallen out from under him. Derek knew he was standing in a parking lot, but his body insisted he was in a free fall, waiting for the horrible, crushing impact.

“How long?”

_“Two months.”_

Derek almost said something he’d regret. He almost shouted at him, wanting to know _why_  he had waited this long to contact him, _why_  he hadn’t told him sooner, when it had been one month, three weeks, two days?

Why he had trusted Scott with someone so _important_ when Scott was a shitty friend, a shitty Alpha, a shitty _person_!

_Why he hadn’t called him immediately!_

He forced the rage aside, feeling his eyes burning and his gums itching. He had to take a second to regain control, emotions he hadn’t felt in a long time warring within him, each one clamouring for attention.

Rage, horror, nausea.

Fear.

Terror.

 _“I know you left,”_ the sheriff said, voice strained. _“I understand why, son. I do. And he did too, even though I know he never admitted that to you. But I—Derek, **he**  needs you. You’re the only one I know who can **do**  this. You’re a born wolf, I know you can find him. I **know**  that—”_ He cut himself off with a sharp breath, like he was struggling to maintain his composure. _“Derek, **please**.”_

He hated hearing him beg.

Derek had already made up his mind the second he’d heard his voice.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’m in Illinois, it’ll take me a while, but I’ll be there.”

The sheriff let out a slow, measured breath, like he was seconds away from falling apart.

He probably was.

_“Thank you. I’ll be expecting you. I’ll let Scott know.”_

“See you soon.”

Derek hung up and turned to climb into the car. He didn’t go home first. He didn’t call anyone. He didn’t worry about his life in Illinois.

He got in his car, and he headed out of town as fast as he could go without getting pulled over. He raced to Beacon Hills as quickly as the Camaro would allow. He made it there in record time, exhausted and worried, but he’d made it.

Derek remembered everything about that day like it was yesterday.

But it wasn’t.

Because February 24th, the day ‘Stiles Stilinski Home’ flashed on his screen, and his father’s voice rang down the line wasn’t yesterday.

And no matter how hard he tried to forget, no matter what he did to erase that memory from his brain, no matter who he saw to just hack it right out and free him of this suffering, Derek remembered everything about that day.

That day was three years ago.

It was a Wednesday.

* * *

The loud, almost jarring sound of his phone going off much earlier than it was supposed to had Derek almost ready to wolf out and smash the thing to pieces. He’d had a terrible night, an even _worse_  evening, and he just wanted to lie in bed and sleep until he didn’t have a choice but to get up for work. So his phone ringing loudly in the darkness of the room he currently occupied was quite unwelcome and ridiculously frustrating.

But, he’d never been one to ignore a phonecall at the ass crack of dawn, so he reached out with one hand, fumbling on the nightstand for the phone, and then wrenched it over. He heard something snap and hoped he hadn’t just broken his charger again. He was starting to go through those as often as other people went through socks.

Lifting his head off the pillow, he squinted at the bright screen, and felt his stomach drop at the name flashing back at him. That couldn’t be good.

There went sleep.

Answering the call and rolling onto his back, blankets tangling around his waist, he inhaled deeply and rubbed one hand over his face.

“Jordan.”

 _“Hey Derek,”_ Jordan Parrish said down the line, sounding as tired as Derek felt. _“Sorry to wake you. I take it you aren’t home.”_

“Let me guess,” he said with a sigh. “Again?”

 _“Again,”_ Parrish replied.

“What time?”

_“Four.”_

Derek pulled the phone away to check the time. It was just after five, so he was an hour late. He brought it back to his ear before saying, “I’ll handle it.”

_“Thanks Derek. Sorry I woke you.”_

Grunting in response, he just said he’d see him soon and then hung up. It took him a few minutes to convince himself to get out of bed, but he eventually found the strength. Every day was an exercise in willpower, forcing himself to get up, forcing himself to leave the house, forcing himself to act like his life hadn’t fallen apart spectacularly around him.

He stumbled around his room to get some clothes on, abandoning all hope of getting some sleep today. It was fine, he could drink coffee and just do paperwork for the day. It would probably be best for him not to attempt to handle any heavy machinery while this exhausted.

Then again, he felt perpetually exhausted, so that might’ve honestly been a lost cause. At least he hadn’t killed himself yet, so that was a plus.

Once he was dressed, he headed down the stairs and grabbed his jacket, yanking it on before pulling open the loft door. He made it to the Camaro quickly, and then started on his way down the familiar road, able to drive where he needed to be in his sleep.

He made it there in only ten minutes, parking the Camaro on the street and then climbing out. He dutifully looked anywhere but at the driveway, where a tarp covered a vehicle he didn’t want to think about. He just moved up to the porch, climbed the steps quickly, and reached into his pocket to pull out his keys.

Unlocking the door took no time at all, and when he threw it open, he recoiled slightly at the stench.

“Fuck,” he hissed, trying to breathe through his mouth, entering the house and shutting the door behind him. It had been too many days since he’d been there, he knew it was his own fault for not making the trip home. It was just hard when he was tired and the old loft was closer.

Moving quickly through the house, he found the man passed out on the couch with an overturned bottle of whiskey on the floor, soaking into the carpet. The place was a mess and it was far too fucking early in the morning to be dealing with this.

But, he’d promised himself he would be there for him, so he obediently moved across the living room and grabbed the sheriff’s shoulder, giving him a hard shake.

“John,” he said, shaking him roughly when all he did was groan. “John, get up.” He got a slap to his arm for that. Scowling, he tightened his grip to bruising, and snapped, “ _Noah_!”

“Don’t call me that,” the sheriff grunted, opening his eyes and looking up at Derek. It looked like he hadn’t shaved in a few days, his clothes hung off him like they were much too big for him, and he smelled like a sewer.

“You’re late for work,” Derek informed him.

“So what?” was the gruff response.

“So I didn’t pay off your mortgage in order for you to lie in your own vomit, drunk out of your mind on your couch,” Derek snapped.

“I never asked you to do that,” the older man said, words slurring together. “I asked you to find my son, but you didn’t. Because you can’t do anything right, can you?”

Derek kept the wince off his face, because he didn’t need to be focussing on the sheriff’s words right then. He needed to get the man into some semblance of order, but he knew it would be impossible. He was still drunk, he was in no shape to go to work.

And so, Derek did the only thing he could do. He turned around and went up to the second floor, entering the sheriff’s bedroom and moving through it to the en suite. He started the shower, making it go as cold as it was able to, and then turned to head back downstairs. The sheriff was right where he’d left him, except he’d managed to snag the bottle off the ground and was attempting to drink it while lying down.

Derek wrenched the bottle from his hand viciously and set it on the coffee table so hard the bottle cracked. Then he grabbed the sheriff by the front of his stained white shirt and wrenched him off the couch. He tried to fight back, stumbling over his own feet, but he was drunk and exhausted, and Derek was a Werewolf. It was easy to drag the man up the stairs and down the corridor. When they reached the bathroom, he forcibly shoved him under the spray, snarling when he was hit with the cold water himself in an attempt to get John to sit in the tub.

“I fucking _hate_  you,” he said, with feeling, eyes unfocussed but somehow still conveying the hatred and rage.

“I know,” Derek informed him. “Clean yourself up.”

“I wish you’d never come back here, you worthless bastard!”

“I know,” Derek said again, walking out of the bathroom, and shutting the door behind him.

He took a second to stand on the other side, half his upper body dripping water. It was easy to hear the sobbing through the door over the sound of water hitting tile and flesh. It made his chest ache, but he didn’t go back into the bathroom.

He just waited, listening to make sure John was actually doing something in there, and then headed towards the man’s dresser. He pulled out a pair of shorts and one of the only clean shirts he had left, then moved to leave them on the dresser by the bathroom door.

They’d played this game before, Derek was used to it, and so was the sheriff.

Heading back downstairs, Derek pulled his phone out and found Parrish’s contact, calling him back and putting it to his ear.

 _“How bad is it?”_ he asked in greeting.

“Bad,” Derek said, rubbing his eyes with one hand. “How many sick days does he have left?”

_“Eight.”_

“Shit.” When Derek had come back from Illinois, the sheriff’s lack of ever taking a day off had meant he had an accumulated two-hundred and forty sick days. He’d been using them up, slowly but surely, the past three years, and to hear he was down to eight wasn’t great. “He isn’t in any position to come into work today.”

_“I’ll do some damage control.”_

“Thanks.” Derek hung up and let out a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. He tilted his head, listening to the sounds from upstairs. It seemed like he was done crying, but he hadn’t made any move to exit the shower yet. Derek didn’t want to bother starting a cleanup when he knew he’d have to go back upstairs, so he instead called another number.

 _“Do you have **any**  idea what time it is, boss?”_ a tired voice demanded down the line. It sounded like his face was smooshed into his pillow.

“I do, actually. I need a personal day, can you open?”

There was a loud, long groan of complaint on the other end, followed by a deep sigh. _“You’re killing me, boss.”_

“Sorry, unavoidable.”

_“You’re lucky you pay me so well.”_

“I’ll drop in as soon as I can.”

 _“Mm hm.”_ The line went dead.

Derek pulled the phone away, then checked his calendar. When he confirmed she was working, and thus wouldn’t wake her, he opened his texts and sent off a message.

 **[Derek]**  
Can you come over when you’re off shift?

He waited, watching the screen, and saw that she was typing back.

 **[Melissa McCall]**  
John?

 **[Derek]**  
Yes

 **[Melissa McCall]**  
Bad?

 **[Derek]**  
No worse than usual

 **[Melissa McCall]**  
I’m off in an hour. See you soon

He put the phone away and by then he could hear the sheriff cursing and stumbling around upstairs. He headed back to the second level and entered the bedroom. The old, dirty and wet clothes had been discarded on the floor by the bathroom door, soaking into the carpet. The sheriff had just finished pulling on his shirt, stumbling towards the bed.

Derek moved over beside him and pulled the covers aside, wincing at the stench. He was going to have to wash those later when John was sober again.

John seemed to realize he was back and he fisted the front of Derek’s shirt, almost falling into him. “You were supposed to fix it.”

“I know.”

“I hate you.”

“I know. Get some sleep.” Shoving John easily into bed, he pulled the blanket back over him, then moved to grab John’s wet clothes off the ground. He ended up just putting them in the hamper, and then moving through the room collecting all the discarded clothing, shoving everything into the laundry before exiting the room with it, shutting the door. He made his way downstairs and threw a load into the wash, starting it before heading back upstairs. He couldn’t do John’s room while he was sleeping, so he instead opened his own bedroom door and let out a sigh.

“Really, John?” Shaking his head, he moved forward, knowing this was kind of his own fault. He’d been sleeping at the loft for too long, and he knew this happened whenever he wasn’t around to keep an eye on him.

But still, this was a new low, even for the sheriff. There was dried vomit all over the bedspread, and a majority of Derek’s clothes had been thrown all over the room like a child having a tantrum. He knew John wasn’t in control when he got drunk, but still. Now he was going to have to do laundry virtually all day.

Stripping the bed and gathering the laundry in his arms with the blankets folded over themselves so he wasn’t touching the vomit, he made three trips to get everything to the laundry room off the kitchen, dumping it all on the floor.

Heading back upstairs, he slowly and methodically cleaned his room, putting all the empty bottles out into the corridor to be brought to the recycle bin outside later. Once his room was back to some semblance of order, he left and went to clean the other bathroom on their floor. There was vomit in the tub, but at least that was easy to clean, and the rest of the bathroom didn’t look too bad. Made sense, since John tended to use his own.

He was still on his knees scrubbing at the tub when the door opened downstairs. Tossing the rag down on a clean spot and relishing the reprieve for his abused nose, he got to his feet and moved to the stairs, seeing Melissa McCall standing at the base of them, looking around with disgust. When she glanced up and saw him, she gave him an apologetic look.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let it get this bad.”

“You’re not his keeper,” Derek insisted.

“Neither are you,” she reminded him softly.

“Someone needs to keep an eye on him,” Derek said. “Might as well be me.”

Melissa looked like she wanted to say something, but thought better of it. She just sighed, clearly exhausted after a long night at work, and set her purse down on the hall table, looking around. “Do you need help up there?”

“I’ve got it.”

“I’ll start down here, then.”

“Thank you.” Derek turned to head back for the bathroom.

He was going to have a long day.

* * *

Noah John Stilinski was the strongest man Derek had ever met. The only two people in his life who could destroy him were his wife and his son.

His wife had died, and it had nearly annihilated him. But he had his son, and he loved him, and he’d fought himself out of the bottle, he’d gotten sober, and he’d raised him to the best of his ability while forever nursing a broken heart.

And then his son had disappeared, and there was nothing left for him. No reason for him to continue, to fight, to _be there_. So he let himself go. He drowned his sorrows in alcohol, he ignored that anyone else existed in the world, and he gave up. At this point, Derek looked at him and saw only a man waiting to die.

The thing that killed Derek the most was that Stiles’ disappearance hadn’t only affected the sheriff. It had affected everyone.

Three years ago, he’d come back to Beacon Hills at the sheriff’s request. He’d started organizing Pack meetings, they’d all gone out and tried their best to find Stiles. His uncle Peter had come back from wherever the hell he was in the world, having magically heard about Stiles’ disappearance, and had offered his assistance.

Nobody wanted to trust him, but Derek could see that Stiles being missing was actually affecting him. As much as Peter hated all of them, Stiles was the one he hated the least. Derek might actually hesitantly believe that Peter _cared_  for him, in his own, messed up way. So he’d stayed, and they’d searched, and they’d researched, and they’d done what they could.

Weeks turned into months which turned into years.

After the first year, the Pack couldn’t even look at each other. They’d fallen apart to in-fighting and accusations. Everyone had someone to blame for everything that had ever gone wrong in the town. People’s deaths, people’s ruined lives, disappearances, scars, unwanted abilities. Everyone had something to complain about, and everyone hated each other.

The sheriff had been holding it together for a time. He’d started drinking early on, a coping mechanism that was all too easy to fall back into. But he’d managed to keep himself together up until the in-fighting. The more the Pack fought, the more hopeless he became. He started to look haggard every time Derek saw him. He was losing weight, the strong set of his shoulders started to droop, and he aged very quickly in a short amount of time.

It wasn’t until the departures that he really fell apart. It wasn’t until the Pack fully split that John stopped going to work, spent more time drinking than anything else, and fully gave up hope that his son would ever be found again.

Lydia Martin was the first to leave. She insisted the Pack was useless, they didn’t care enough about Stiles, and she was going to find him on her own. She’d left after eighteen months, and Derek didn’t know where she’d gone, only that she never came back.

Liam Dunbar and Mason Hewitt left next. They’d already been in university when they’d heard the news, having taken two years off in their efforts to find their friend. But it became clear it was a lost cause. For Mason, it looked like it was too hard pretending they would find him. For Liam, it looked like he felt his Alpha had failed him. They both left, returning to university. After a semester in the same one, Mason transferred to another, and as far as Derek knew, they didn’t speak anymore.

Malia Tate was the next to disappear. She’d outlasted the others mostly out of desperation. Stiles was the one who’d saved her, the one who’d helped her. Stiles was someone Derek truly believed was Malia’s first love. They all had one, and for Malia, he was it. She didn’t want to give up, and Derek didn’t think she had. But she left in the middle of the night, leaving only a note for Derek saying she couldn’t stay there anymore. She emailed him every now and then, but he didn’t know where she was, and he never asked.

Peter was the last to go. He and Scott got into it, and then he attacked him, and then he left. He told Derek there was no reason for him to stay either, since Scott clearly didn’t care enough about his friend to find him. Derek told him if he was leaving to just go, so Peter did.

While Jordan Parrish didn’t go anywhere, he was never truly part of the Pack. He was a Supernatural being, a Hellhound, but he was a police officer first and a Supernatural second. He had his own life, his own friends. He cared about the sheriff, and he stayed out of the Pack politics to avoid conflicts. So when the Pack splintered and Pack meetings stopped, he didn’t ask why. He just went about his day.

And then it was just Derek and Scott. They had never been close friends. They had hardly even been friends. By the end of the second year, Derek hated him, and Scott hated him in return. They went their separate ways, Scott returning to his studies and eventually joining Deaton in the clinic, never wanting to stray too far from home.

Derek knew he could’ve left. He knew he could pack up and go back to his old life. Hell, he could’ve gone out looking for Stiles, and he wanted to. He did, so badly. He wanted to believe Stiles was alive out there, that he was waiting for someone to come and save him, and Derek so desperately wanted to be that person.

The only reason he didn’t was because of the sheriff. Because of the man he’d become in the past two years. His drinking had gotten worse when the last of the Pack left, and he already hadn’t been going to work. The full breakup of the Pack had him _never_  going to work. Derek, Melissa and Parrish had to force him out of bed, stop him from self-destructing.

John lapsed on his mortgage. They were threatening to take his badge. His health declined. Derek didn’t know what to do, how to help him.

Derek knew Stiles was John’s everything, but he also knew that to Stiles, the sheriff was his everything.

Stiles loved his father so much he would die if anything happened to him. And Derek knew if he left, nobody would take care of him. Nobody would watch him and make sure he was doing okay.

Sure, Parrish always worked hard to make sure he showed up for work and got through the day, and Melissa dropped by every now and then to check in, but no one would _be_  there for him. No one would make sure he was taking care of himself, and Derek couldn’t let the man kill himself in misery.

Stiles meant too much to him for Derek to let the sheriff implode.

When he’d come back at the sheriff’s request, Derek had been living in the loft at first. When the sheriff began going downhill, he’d moved into the spare room at the house. When he lapsed on the mortgage, Derek paid it off with the express understanding that _he_  now owned the house, which meant the sheriff was never allowed to keep him out of it. It was an agreement they had come to between the two of them, and while Derek knew John deeply regretted it, he’d kept up his end of the deal, never using mountain ash or anything else harmful to Werewolves to keep Derek out.

Derek came and went as he pleased, and as the months passed, more and more of his belongings ended up in the spare room until suddenly it wasn’t the spare room anymore, it was just Derek’s room. He spent more time in the house than at the loft until he finally just didn’t go to the loft unless he was at work late.

Though he had money, he’d spent a chunk of it paying off the sheriff’s mortgage, and while he didn’t want to have any ties, he also understood he needed a distraction or he would go insane. So Derek had gone looking for a job. There was an opening for a mechanic at Armour Tire and Service, and Derek was actually pretty skilled with cars, having taken a few courses in both high school and university—mostly just for fun. He and the owner got along really well, and it was obvious to him that Derek needed an outlet, and that this job was the perfect distraction for him.

After two years of him working there, the old man decided to retire, and Derek had been a little worried about being booted out when he sold his business, because everyone knew Derek Hale and he was not very well liked. He was ‘a problem child’ or whatever.

Thankfully, the owner—a guy named Charles Armour, whom Derek referred to as ‘Chuck’—decided he would rather have someone competent take over the shop than someone he didn’t even know, and his nephew had already declined three times. So he and Derek made an agreement: they agreed on a price he would sell the place to Derek at, and instead of getting a salary, Derek would work his usual hours and that money would go towards buying the shop.

He still had a long way to go, and he knew he could technically pay off a bit of the amount with the money he had left, but this worked out better for him. He used his own money to live his life, and he knew that at the end of five more years, the place would be his. He’d never thought he’d want to stay in Beacon Hills, but he had someone who needed him, so he had no plans of leaving.

So, Derek suddenly had a new life in Beacon Hills. He lived with the sheriff in a house he kind of owned, and he worked his ass off at a garage that he kind of owned. And in between all that, he searched for Stiles. He obsessed about it. He called in all the favours he had, he touched base with dozens of friends across the world, he did whatever he could to try and find the one person in the world he cared about.

Hell, he’d even called his sister Cora, whom he didn’t speak to anymore, and she’d agreed to keep an eye out for Stiles. Even apologized for him going missing.

Everyone knew how much this hurt for Derek, because everyone knew what had happened between them.

Before he’d left, Derek had told Stiles he was the only person in his life he truly cared about anymore. He told him he wanted more than what they had, but there was a caveat: Stiles had to come with him. He had to leave, get out of Beacon Hills, leave all this bullshit behind him.

Stiles had tried that once. He’d gone to be an intern at the FBI, he’d worked to become something more than the token human. But then he’d gotten sucked back in, and try as he might, he couldn’t walk away. So when Derek told him the terms, Stiles said no.

He argued about his dad, about Scott, about how it wasn’t fair for Derek to give him an ultimatum, to make him choose between them and him. At the time, Derek hadn’t felt like it was an ultimatum, but he did now. He understood it had been unfair to ask him to leave, unfair to insist that he had to get out when Stiles had already tried that once, and failed.

So they’d fought, and before they could even become something, they ended up being nothing. Derek left, he didn’t look back, he disappeared across the country.

He kept his phone number, though. He kept up with the Pack, checked their group chat every now and then. His chest ached whenever he saw Stiles’ name in the group chat, but Derek himself never spoke. He never made his presence known.

And they never kicked him out of the chat.

But they also didn’t talk about everything happening in town in the group chat.

Stiles went missing. Derek came back. The chat was still there, and though no one used it, everyone was still in it. No one had dared leave it. But it had been three years. Derek didn’t want to lose hope, but he knew he couldn’t focus on two Stilinskis at once. He was only one man, and he was tired, and hurt, and fed up with losing everything all the time.

He blamed himself for Stiles’ disappearance. He wasn’t going to let the sheriff kill himself over this. So if the only thing he could do with what was left of his pathetic life was take care of the man who meant the world to the man that meant the world to Derek, then that was what he was going to do.

He was going to clean up after him. He was going to wipe his face when he threw up, and get him into bed when he was tired, and force feed him healthy shit when he was being a grumpy motherfucker. Derek was going to make sure Noah John Stilinski lived a long and healthy life, even if he was as miserable as Derek was.

Because they owed it to Stiles. Derek owed Stiles everything, and he knew the sheriff was the only man who mattered to him. So Derek was going to keep him alive and breathing as long as he could, and there wasn’t a damn thing John could do about it.

* * *

“Thanks for coming,” Derek said when he and Melissa finally sat at the kitchen table, the last load of laundry in the dryer and the house looking back to normal. “I shouldn’t have stayed away for so long, I know how he gets.”

“He’s not your responsibility,” Melissa said softly, looking ready to pass out where she was sitting, nursing a cup of tea. “You know you don’t have to do this.”

“I do,” Derek insisted. “I have to.” John was all he had left of Stiles, he wasn’t going to let the man drink himself to death.

“How long were you at the loft?”

Derek shook his head, raking one hand through his hair. “Six days? Maybe a week?”

It was depressing when he realized how badly the house had suffered in his short absence. The loft was just closer to the garage, and he’d been working long hours trying to make up for the two guys he had on vacation.

Lesson learned. No matter how tired he was, he needed to come back to the house, or else John would hit the bottle again.

A lot of bottles. It was lucky he hadn’t shown up for work and Parrish had called Derek, or he might’ve drunk himself to death.

Actually, that was probably what he’d been going for.

Melissa reached across the table, taking one of his hands and squeezing tightly, offering him a tired smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“You’re a good man, Derek. Doing this, taking care of him. I know he doesn’t tell you, but he does appreciate it. He’s glad you’re back.”

His drunken mind seemed to disagree, but Derek didn’t say anything about that. “Can I drive you home?”

“I’ll be okay to drive,” she promised, checking the time. “Besides, he’ll be home.”

Right. Scott. Derek and Scott avoided one another like they would spontaneously combust on the spot if they were close to each other. Derek had seen him in the grocery store once and both of them had frozen an entire aisle apart before Derek had left, deciding to come back at a later time.

Scott wanted him out of his territory, but he was on Hale land and didn’t have the right to kick him out. They tolerated each other’s presence in Beacon Hills, but hadn’t spoken in over a year.

It came as absolutely no surprise to Derek that the person keeping the Pack together was Stiles. Scott couldn’t do this without him, and it was why everyone had left. Because Scott wasn’t Stiles.

Derek walked Melissa to the door, thanking her again and watched her climb into her car. When she left, he went back into the house and shut the door. He called the garage, smiling a little at how disgruntled Lloyd Butler was.

Lloyd was Chuck’s nephew, eighteen years older than Derek, and he hated his job like nobody’s business but he went into work anyway. When Derek had called him that morning, he knew he’d be pissed about it, but he never said no. Derek attributed it to nostalgia. Apparently the shop used to be owned by his grandfather, who’d passed it down to Chuck when he’d been old enough. Lloyd had no desires to take over, which was probably the only reason Chuck had offered it to Derek.

Lloyd was a good man, hard worker, especially for someone who didn’t like his job. He didn’t act superior to Derek, and he gave anyone else in the shop shit when they acted like Derek was too young or inexperienced to run the place. It had taken a long time for the guys to treat him with respect, but Derek knew it was all thanks to Lloyd.

The guy was awesome, Derek enjoyed going out for beers with him. The others tagged along every now and then, but he and Lloyd had always been the closest out of everyone in the shop barring Chuck.

“How’ve things been today?” Derek asked, falling onto the couch.

_“Shit. Jason didn’t show up, because he’s a fucking idiot who can’t read a schedule, and Harry and Alex fucked up the Martin’s checkup. Had to knock ten percent off their price and re-do the whole thing from scratch.”_

“Sorry Lloyd.”

 _“Damn straight you are,”_ he grunted, papers shuffling on the other end of the line. _“You deal with that personal problem?”_

“In a way.” It wasn’t a secret the sheriff’s son had been missing for three years.

And it wasn’t a secret Derek lived with him.

Lloyd knew that Derek only took a day off work if he had to deal with something for the sheriff. Sometimes Parrish took over, and sometimes Melissa did, but usually it was Derek. He was thankful that everyone was so understanding.

He was thankful for Parrish, because half the time he wouldn’t know if shit was going down without a contact at the station.

Derek and Parrish had actually become pretty close friends over the years. He came around a lot to check in, and made dinner every now and then if Derek was at work late so that the sheriff didn’t have a reason to eat badly. Derek really liked Parrish, he was a good guy, and they’d gotten close enough that he’d stopped calling him ‘Hale’ and Derek, in turn, stopped calling him ‘Parrish.’ They were just Derek and Jordan now, which was nice.

It was really nice having at least one person his age in town that didn’t hate him.

Derek and Lloyd talked about the day at work, organizing the books and making sure the right parts were ordered. He said he’d be in the following day, Lloyd grunted something unintelligible, and then they hung up.

While he didn’t want to leave the house, the fridge was woefully empty and Derek ended up making a grocery store run, restocking everything they needed, and buying extras of things he wasn’t sure about, like toilet paper. He stopped at the garage on his way back, picking up some papers and being barked at by Lloyd for bothering to drag his lazy ass into work at all, but he knew the guy just cared so he didn’t take it to heart. Lloyd was very much like his uncle, which made sense since he’d grown up with the man breathing down his neck at the shop.

Once he was back home, he put everything away and got some food ready for when John woke up, then spread his papers out on the kitchen table so he could get a head start on the books for next month. He wanted to hire a receptionist, because most of the guys at the shop were like Derek, which meant they lacked social skills, and he worried they were losing business because of the gruffness when they answered the phone. Having someone with a little less bite would be nice, except they’d have to be able to handle the rough edges of the other guys.

It made his chest ache when his mind immediately went to Stiles. Stiles had always been good with Derek. He’d always been able to clap back, and he never took his attitude to heart. He would’ve been able to work in a shop with a bunch of grumpy, rough-around-the-edges mechanics. Stiles would’ve been chipper on the phone, and an asshole to the rest of the guys.

He would’ve been perfect.

Before Derek could allow himself to fall further into that dark hole, he heard movement from upstairs and paused in what he was doing, listening. The sheriff was up and moving about.

When he glanced at the stove, he saw it was a little after four. Derek was tired, being up for so long, and he knew he was going to crash early, but hopefully the sheriff would actually manage to make it to work today. Parrish had confirmed earlier via text that he was scheduled for the morning shift again, so if he could get the man fed and back into bed in a couple of hours, he should be human enough to make it for his four am start.

Derek waited while John got himself organized upstairs, then the bedroom door opened. He kept his eyes on his paper, scratching away at the numbers and scowling when they didn’t add up properly. He hated doing the books, he wasn’t great at math, but it was one of the first things Chuck had taught him when he’d told him he could have the garage. Derek wasn’t enough of an ass to force someone else to do it, even if Lloyd could probably do it faster than him. He just took solace in the fact that the guy always double-checked his work.

He didn’t look up when the sheriff entered the kitchen. He heard him pause at the door for a long while, and then he sighed and finally moved forward, sitting down across from Derek at the table.

“I didn’t mean it,” he said softly. “What I said before. I didn’t mean it, Derek.”

“I know,” he said. He knew the sheriff wasn’t lying, because every signal his body gave out radiated shame and hurt and misery. Derek knew he meant it, though. Derek knew that, deep down, beneath all the pain he felt, John truly hated him.

If Derek and his family had stayed gone, Scott never would’ve become a Werewolf. If Scott wasn’t a Werewolf, his son wouldn’t have gotten involved in that life. If he hadn’t gotten involved, maybe he would still be there. Hell, maybe he’d still be at the FBI. Maybe he’d be an actual agent by now, out solving cases and fighting the good fight. Maybe he’d own a tiny box of an apartment in Washington, with a dog and a girlfriend. Maybe he’d be happy, and would Skype with his dad, visit on the holidays.

Things wouldn’t have turned into this if only the Hales hadn’t come back. If only Laura had stayed away, if only Peter hadn’t killed her and become an Alpha, if only Peter hadn’t bitten Scott, if only Derek hadn’t killed him and become the Alpha instead. The Hales were behind what had happened to Stiles, and Derek knew, deep down, further even than the sheriff was aware of, he knew that the man across from him hated him with every bone in his body.

Derek stood up, dropping his pen. He went to the microwave and started it up, waiting in front of it for the minute it ran before pulling the plate of food out and bringing it to the table with some cutlery. He set it in front of the sheriff, then went to find him some Tylenol and a glass of water. He returned with those as well, then took his seat once more while the sheriff downed the medicine and drained half the glass. Then he started eating, looking down at his plate, avoiding Derek’s eye.

“I thought I got rid of all the alcohol in the house,” Derek said while the man cut into his green beans.

“You were gone,” he said. A fact, not an accusation. “I bought more.”

“I thought I told Jeff not to sell you any alcohol,” Derek insisted. Which he had. He’d spoken to the owner of the only liquor store in town and they’d come to an agreement that the sheriff was not permitted on the premises.

“Drove to the next county.”

He wanted to be pissed about it, but he knew the sheriff was desperate for an escape. He just wanted a reprieve, and Derek understood that. It hurt for all of them, and they all coped in different ways.

Lydia ran, Derek drowned himself in his work, and the sheriff drank. They all coped in their own ways.

“You have work at four tomorrow morning,” Derek told him, picking his pen back up and returning to his numbers. “Parrish is coming to pick you up at three forty-five.”

“I’m an adult, Derek.”

Derek just raised his head to give him a look. The sheriff still wasn’t looking at him, stabbing at his food like a petulant child.

Against his better judgment, he said, “This isn’t what he would’ve wanted for you.”

John went absolutely still, and Derek saw his hand clenching around his fork, jaw working like he was going to say something, but he obviously thought better of it because he remained silent and eventually, his hand relaxed.

He knew what he wanted to say. “This was your fault. Your family forced his hand when Peter bit Scott. You _left_  him. You left the Pack. They took him because you didn’t protect him.”

They were things the sheriff had said to him while drunk. Derek remembered every horrible thing that had been said to him, and he knew he deserved every word. He also knew how ashamed the sheriff felt as soon as he was sober again and realized what he’d said.

But that was okay. Derek had tough skin, he’d been getting shit on since he was sixteen. It didn’t even bother him anymore, especially since he believed it.

Besides, nothing he said was ever as bad as what he’d ever said to Scott.

Scott had only come by once when the sheriff was drunk.

Once.

It had been enough.

Even as much as he hated Scott, Derek had still felt sorry for him, hearing the things the sheriff had said. Of course, John had called the next day to apologize, but Scott never came by again. It worked out, since Derek lived there now and they didn’t want anything to do with each other.

“I wish you’d go,” John said quietly. “I wish you’d leave and go find him.”

“I can’t do that,” Derek said, despite how badly he wanted to. “I was gone for six days and you almost killed yourself, not to mention you destroyed the house. All I can smell is vomit and other bodily fluids. I’m here for you. The others will handle finding him.”

That was another thing that had changed over the years.

No one ever said his name anymore. Nobody dared utter it, for fear of the reaction. Not even just because of the sheriff, but because of themselves. Derek had tried once. He’d said his name out loud, alone in the loft, and it had hurt so much he’d almost doubled over. Stiles’ name was like razor blades in his mouth, broken glass working its way up his throat, shredding his voicebox. Stiles’ name was a reminder of who they’d all lost.

Derek wanted to believe he was still alive out there. He wanted to believe they would find Stiles one day, that it would be like nothing happened.

He wasn’t that naive. It had been three years.

Stiles was dead.

They all knew it. None of them wanted to accept it, but they all knew it.

It was a hard pill to swallow.

* * *

The sheriff went to work at three forty-five in the morning. Derek slept until seven, then got up and headed to the garage. Lloyd showed up a little after eight to open up with him, and when the other guys showed up, he and Derek went to the diner to grab breakfast, Lloyd looking over the books and the two of them talking about the potential of hiring someone to man the phones and deal with the customers in a less abrasive way.

The day was long, and exhausting. Derek spent the double shift there, like he always did. He closed the shop a little after nine, and Parrish was at the house when he got back. He’d made dinner, and was on his way out.

Derek thanked him as if Parrish were taking care of his own father, then went inside. The sheriff was already asleep in the recliner in the living room. Derek didn’t want to wake him to get him to bed, so he just draped a blanket over him and turned off the television before heading upstairs.

When he reached the second floor, he paused while staring at the only closed door on the floor. It was the only room John never destroyed whenever he was left alone in the house for too long. It always looked exactly the same whenever Derek opened the door.

His hand burned with need, but he knew it would just hurt to walk in there. Still, he found himself moving forward and reached out, turning the knob and pushing open the door. Light streamed through the blinds from the streetlamps outside, and Derek gave his eyes a few seconds to shift so he could see in the dark.

The room looked the same as it always did. Unmade bed, books and papers littering the desk, previously mud-caked shoes in the corner. The mud had dried and started to crumble so that all that remained was rust-coloured dust surrounding the shoes, a few chunks having stuck to the soles.

Stiles’ bat was sitting up against his bed, his phone charger was hanging off the nightstand, and an expired bottle of Adderall was lying on its side against the lamp beside his bed.

His scent had long ago faded from the room. It had been too long since he’d been in there. Even after twenty-two years of living in this room, three without him had made everything disappear.

Sometimes, when Derek was feeling particularly pathetic, he would lie on the floor and try and inhale his scent from the carpet, but even that had faded to an almost impossible degree. It was like Stiles was disappearing entirely, and soon, it would be like he never existed. Eventually this door would never be opened again. The covered Jeep in the driveway would become too painful a reminder and would disappear. Every piece of Stiles would be gone, like he was never there.

And that was the day Derek knew they would all finally accept that he was never coming back.

He hated that he didn’t know the whole story. Some nights, he lay awake thinking about what he’d been told, and wondered if having more knowledge would’ve made a difference in finding him.

When he’d come back and been briefed by Scott, they didn’t know much. A group of Hunters had come to town, not looking for trouble, just tracking a monster called an Aswang—an Asian blood-sucking beast—that had come through town. The Pack hadn’t been interested in making friendly with the Hunters, but Chris Argent acted as their go-between and together they managed to track the beast down.

Once it was caught, the Hunters left, and the Pack split to go home. John said Stiles definitely made it home, because the Jeep was in the driveway, and he heard him enter the house—apparently he’d tripped on the stairs and cursed an injury. That was the last anyone knew about him. John hadn’t heard him enter his room, and there had been no signs of a break-in. Derek felt inclined to believe Stiles had never made it to the second floor, because he would’ve charged his phone which meant it would’ve still been there when the sheriff went looking for him the next morning.

The mud-caked shoes had been from the night before, a confusing aside that Scott had spent entirely too long focussing on before Malia had insisted they weren’t the shoes Stiles had been wearing the last night anyone had seen him.

Stiles had _been_  in his house. He had entered the house, climbed the stairs, tripped, and then he was gone. The Pack had searched for him for two months before Derek had been called, and the first thing he did upon hearing the story was find the Hunters. Chris helped him with that, but the group of them were actually decent human beings and were adamant that they hadn’t touched Stiles. Half of them honestly didn’t even remember him, and Derek knew they weren’t lying. He also couldn’t smell him anywhere on them.

The Pack had expanded their perimeter as the days passed, but they couldn’t find him. Stiles’ scent always led back to his house, and there were no foreign scents in the place. He’d literally vanished into thin air.

Which, of course, suggested magic and witchcraft. Derek had called some Magician friends, and Alan Deaton, town Druid and Scott’s Emissary, had touched base with his own contacts, but nobody could find anything that proved Stiles had been magicked away.

He was there, and then he wasn’t.

Three years later, and he still _wasn’t_.

Derek’s grip tightened on the doorknob, warping the metal until he could force himself to let go. He moved further into the room, sitting down on Stiles’ bed and looked around, feeling his chest ache.

He knew he couldn’t have done anything in the moment. He knew Stiles had disappeared without anyone being able to do anything. But a part of him still wondered if he might’ve found him had he been there. If he’d found out the _second_  it had happened, maybe his born-wolf abilities would’ve made a difference.

A ridiculous thought, given Malia was also a born-Were, but Derek was nothing if not a martyr. Everything was always his fault in some way or another, and Stiles’ disappearance was no different.

Lying down on the bed, Derek stared up at the ceiling, the room smelling musty and more like himself than anything else, given his occasional visits.

“I shouldn’t have fallen in love with you,” he said to the ceiling. “Everyone I love with my entire being either gets destroyed or destroys me.”

Really, he should’ve noticed the pattern.

He’d loved Paige, and she’d died.

He’d loved Kate, and she’d murdered his family.

He’d loved Jennifer, and she’d almost murdered his new Pack and friends.

He’d loved Stiles, and now he was probably dead.

He should’ve known not to fall in love with someone he cared so much about. He’d cared _so much_ about Stiles. It seemed logical that the next step for him would be to fall in love with him, but he should’ve noticed his pattern. He shouldn’t have let himself go down that road, because now he was gone, and it was all his fault.

Everything was his fault, just like always. Because Derek was a walking fucking disaster.

“Planning on sleeping there?”

Derek started and jerked upright, looking over at the door where the sheriff was standing. He hadn’t heard him come upstairs.

“No.” He stood, moving away from the bed and exiting the room, shutting the door behind him. “You should sleep, it’s late.”

“I’m the adult, here,” John reminded him, even though Derek was twenty-eight, and a bonafide adult himself.

“I need to go to Agassis Falls tomorrow,” Derek informed him. “Have to pick up some parts for the shop. Jordan’ll be here after work until I get back.”

John didn’t say anything, likely because he knew it wouldn’t do any good.

“Melissa said she’d drop by for dinner. Might bring Scott.”

They both knew Scott wouldn’t come, but Melissa would try. Derek wouldn’t be around, and it had been months since the sheriff and Scott had seen one another. Might do some good, as long as the man stayed sober.

“Good night, Derek.” He sounded so defeated when he said it that it hurt to hear.

“Good night.”

He watched the sheriff head to his room and disappear inside, the door shutting with a soft click.

Derek turned back to Stiles’ door, brushing his fingers lightly along the wood, heart clenching in his chest.

“I’m sorry.” He let his fingers slide off the door and then turned to enter his room.

* * *

Derek hated Agassis Falls. It was almost a mirror image of Beacon Hills, except minus the Supernatural bullshit and plus about eighty thousand extra racist assholes. He almost always felt the urge to tear someone’s head off whenever he spent more than ten minutes in the damn place, which was why he always made a point of doing what he needed to do and leaving as soon as possible.

Agassis Falls was a six hour drive from Beacon Hills, so Derek always had to leave early in the morning, spend no more than an hour there—though he tried for literally ten minutes—and then headed back out right away.

He stopped at a McDonalds for breakfast, perusing the menu, and then again at a local fast food joint about four miles out from his destination. They had specials on display for each day of the week, so while Derek idled behind another car giving their order, he pulled out his phone to check what day it was.

Wednesday.

He pushed it back into his pocket almost violently, hating Wednesdays, but got the special anyway since he’d been too angry to check the menu properly before moving up to the order box.

He ate his lunch on his way into town, made it to his destination, managed _not_  to rip anyone’s face off, and then headed off again. A group of girls in a VW Beetle followed him almost all the way out of town, catcalling to him and asking him if he was looking to have a good time. He resolutely stared straight ahead to avoid flashing his eyes at them and snarling. Thankfully, he made it to the highway and they gave up their attempts to get his attention.

It was a long way back, and he stopped at a diner for dinner, figuring he should have at least _one_  healthy meal today. He stopped at the garage before heading home to drop off the parts they’d needed, and left a note for Lloyd for the morning. Derek was coming in around nine since he had to stop by the bank with Chuck first thing. There was a problem with the rent, and they needed to figure out what the fuck had happened before Chuck went postal on someone.

The guy was surprisingly scary when he was angry.

He could see light coming from beneath one of the doors at the back that led into a room he’d never entered, but he didn’t investigate. When he’d first started, Lloyd and Chuck both had told him the room was off-limits. It was personal. Derek never broke their trust by checking it out, and he figured it was Chuck in the back, given the recent scent.

By the time he got back to the house, Melissa and Parrish were both still there. Derek let himself in and greeted everyone in the living room, noting their tense expressions the second he walked into the house.

“What happened?” he asked immediately, moving into the living room and sitting beside Melissa on the couch.

“Nothing yet,” Parrish said, raking a hand through his hair. “Couple of hunters came to the station today. Were out in the Preserve hunting deer and found a few dead ones off the path.”

It took a second for Derek to realize he meant _actual_  hunters, not Hunters, capital H. The kind of hunters who went out with the orange vests and rifles and killed animals for sport, not the Chris Argent kind of Hunters.

“Do we know what it was?” Derek asked.

“I went out there with Val earlier, brought one back to Deaton. He said it was an animal attack, but we’ve been hearing a lot of reports about a wild animal out in the Preserve killing deer and rabbits the past two days.”

“We think it’s Supernatural?” Derek asked with a frown.

Their little town had been doing surprisingly well since the sheriff had gotten drunk five months ago and gone out to burn the Nemeton to ash. He’d almost set half the forest on fire in the process and Parrish had been the one to get him out of there before he killed himself, but it seemed whatever magic the Nemeton was pushing out to attract evil had finally ceased.

Derek had kind of been enjoying their little reprieve.

“Nothing suggests that so far,” the sheriff grunted. “Looks perfectly normal. But we can’t have a wild animal out there with hunting season starting. It’s a danger to civilians.”

“You want me to check it out?” Derek asked.

“Not yet,” Parrish said, despite it being obvious the sheriff thought otherwise. “It’s just an animal passing through. We’ll put out a warning and hope it moves along quickly. Reports only just started coming in, with any luck it’ll be gone inside a week.”

Derek shrugged, but figured he’d go check it out anyway once Melissa and Parrish left. It was still light out, and he was in a bad mood from his long day in the car and the reminder of what day of the week it was.

It also didn’t help that it was currently February 20th, and he was fast approaching the anniversary of the phone call he’d received from the sheriff. He felt like it might be nice to go out, turn into a wolf, maul whatever the fuck was attacking deer in his territory.

Well, Scott’s territory, but his land. And really, was Scott even an Alpha anymore? He had no Pack, he was just an Omega with red eyes. At least Derek had a Pack, what with having the sheriff and Parrish in his circle. One Supernatural and a human still constituted a Pack, as evidenced by the fact that Derek’s original Pack had literally been him, Stiles and Scott.

Parrish and Melissa stayed only a few minutes longer, moving on to less depressing topics in an attempt to lighten the mood. Derek saw them out when they finally left, and as soon as the door was shut, he turned and saw the sheriff in the corridor behind him.

“You want me to check it out,” he guessed.

“You were going to anyway.”

He wasn’t wrong, so Derek just shrugged one shoulder and cocked his head, listening for Melissa and Parrish to leave before heading out.

“Did you put an alert out yet? Might go wolf, and I don’t want anyone to shoot at me.” Though he might deserve it, in his opinion.

“Best you stay human,” the sheriff said in response.

Derek just nodded and waited. Once he was sure Melissa and Parrish had left, he exited the house, pausing before shutting the door and glaring at John. “If I come home and smell any alcohol in this house, you’ll regret it. I’ll be right back, don’t be stupid.”

The sheriff said nothing, which wasn’t comforting, but he was a grown fucking man and Derek had to hope he could leave him alone for ten fucking minutes.

He went back to the Camaro, keeping his gaze on his own car and not looking at the covered vehicle in the driveway. Once he was behind the wheel, he headed out to the Preserve. There were a few cars parked in the lot, but it was getting dark and he knew whatever idiots were out looking for trouble, they’d be forced to head back soon.

Locking up and then pushing his keys into his pocket, he headed out on foot through the path, listening hard and making out where all the various humans were in the woods. They were idiots for being out there trying to find whatever was killing the deer, but he didn’t dwell on it. If they got killed, it would be their own fault. Sure, if it was Supernatural, he’d feel a little guilty, but if it turned out to be a bear or something, well, they shouldn’t have gone out looking to get their faces eaten, that was on them.

Derek walked along the path for about a mile before heading off into the trees. He knew these woods like he did his own childhood home, and it was easy for him to scent the air and find a dead deer. This one had been dead for a while, at least a week, and when he bent down beside it to get a better scent on what had attacked it, he froze.

Every hair on his body rose on end and he was positive he was wrong, but he bent down closer, ignoring the smell of decay and the various bugs that had started to make the dead animal their dinner and he inhaled again.

It was faint, but it was there. That, or he was crazy. He was probably crazy, because that was impossible. It was _impossible_.

Shifting along around the deer, staying close to the ground, Derek followed the scent, nostrils flaring and eyes burning when they turned blue. He could almost _see_  the trail as it led off further into the Preserve and he hastily followed it, staying low and inhaling almost greedily.

He knew he was losing his mind, because there was no way he was smelling what he thought he was. He’d had a long day, he was clearly delusional, it was Wednesday and close to the anniversary of a horrible phone call. But this scent was familiar, and it made his chest _burn_. Every inhale was like liquid fire in his lungs, burning its way through him, because he _knew_  this scent, and it was _impossible_.

He lost track of it about half a mile into the woods, and he almost lost his fucking mind before scenting the air and finding another dead animal. This one was fresher, and the scent of what had taken it down was stronger. Maybe a day old, if that. Derek didn’t worry about it, he just raced after the scent, following it along as the sun began to disappear beneath the horizon, bathing the area in darkness. His boots crunched over fallen leaves, and he batted branches out of his face impatiently, continuing after the scent. It was getting stronger the further into the Preserve he went, and he was about to lose his fucking mind when he inhaled and he knew he was on a fresh trail.

Hours, maybe even _minutes_ , old.

“Stiles.”

If he was crazy, he was going straight to fucking Eichen house, because it smelled like Stiles. This scent he’d been following smelled like _Stiles_!

And this one was fresh.

He raced through the forest after it, heart pounding in his chest and claws coming out despite his best effort. He slashed through branches that were in his way, and leapt over fallen trees, moving through the forest so fast he could hardly keep track of his surroundings.

He skid to a halt outside a large rock formation. He vaguely knew where he was, about two miles south of his old childhood home. The place reeked of blood and death, but underneath all that and the trail of dead animal carcases leading to the entrance of a small opening in the rocks, he could smell him.

“Stiles!” Derek raced for the opening, a part of his mind screaming at him that he was stupid to fall for such an obvious trap, but another part of him insisting he didn’t care. Really, after three years, it didn’t _matter_  if it was a trap. If he found Stiles, he didn’t care if he died immediately afterwards. He just needed to see him one last time.

He clambered into the cave, and was immediately hit with another scent. It still had that Stiles flavour to it, but somehow it smelled... wrong. Not bad, just different. Not like Stiles.

And then he heard the roar.

He froze, barely past the entrance, and his eyes searched the darkness of the cave he was in. It wasn’t very big, maybe about the size of his bedroom back at the house, so it made the sweep quick. His eyes landed on a dirty, blood-streaked mass of human flesh in the far corner, bright blue eyes looking out at him from under matted brown hair.

For a few seconds, Derek wasn’t sure what he was looking at, because he could _smell_  Stiles, but he couldn’t _see_  him. At least, that was what he thought at first, until the growling Werewolf in the cave shifted and Derek realized, with a start, that the growling Werewolf _was_  Stiles.

His stomach bottomed out, because he was staring at Stiles, and it felt so good to see him, except he was a Werewolf, and his eyes were blue, and Derek knew, he just _knew_  that whatever had happened to him, it had been awful.

Stiles had never wanted to be a Werewolf, and now he was, and his eyes were blue, and _fuck_!

“Stiles,” Derek said softly, throat tight. He forced himself to pull his claws back, to make his eyes return to normal. He made himself as human as he could, holding one hand out slowly and taking a cautious step forward.

Stiles growled loudly, hunkering down and looking ready to attack him. Derek stopped, staring at him, because Stiles was acting like he didn’t recognize him. Had Derek changed in the past few years? Or was Stiles just pissed that Derek was there at all?

Honestly, he didn’t care. He didn’t care if Stiles tore him to ribbons, he was going to fucking crush him in a hug the second he could get close enough, because it was _Stiles_  and he was _alive_  and Derek felt like he might be in shock because his heart was pounding in his chest and it was a struggle to inhale properly.

“Stiles, it’s me. It’s Derek.” When he took another step forward, the growling turned threatening and he saw Stiles digging his claws into the ground beneath him, ready to pounce.

His blood ran cold, because this was different. This wasn’t a pissed off Stiles. It wasn’t even a pissed off Werewolf. It was a _threatened_  Werewolf. Stiles was acting the same way Derek had seen countless others act before. Countless Werewolves his mother had been forced to take down, been forced to decide whether they could be saved or were too far gone.

His stomach bottomed out when he realized what he was looking at.

Hunters liked to play a game with Werewolves. It was a cruel, vicious game that they found great amusement in. Kate had tried to play it with Derek during one of her many torture sessions upon his return to Beacon Hills, but she’d never succeeded because Scott and Stiles had always found him and set him free. They had no idea what they’d done for him, how many times they’d saved him.

Because a Werewolf who was forced to shift, and then forced to remain in that shift for an extended period of time could lose its mind. Its human side would recede, and the wolf would take over. After a few days of this, it started becoming harder for the human to come back. After months, it was almost impossible.

After years, it _was_  impossible.

The wolves would go feral. A beast’s mind trapped in a human body.

And Stiles... Stiles looked and sounded exactly like the countless feral wolves Derek had seen his mother take down when he was a child.

Stiles wasn’t Stiles anymore.

He wasn’t even a Werewolf anymore.

He was feral.

His heart stuttered in his chest at the realization. He’d found Stiles. He’d _found_  him. But Stiles wasn’t in there anymore. Maybe, deep down, if the shift hadn’t been forced for too long. Maybe he could come back, they could pull him back to the surface, but if they were too late...

“No,” he growled to no one, his voice low and guttural with a touch of desperation. He wasn’t losing Stiles. Not like this. Not when he was _right here_. He wasn’t going to fucking lose him, so he just had to get him out of there before they had unwanted visitors and he could deal with the rest afterwards.

“Stiles,” Derek said again, forcing himself to remain calm, because he felt like he was going to lose his fucking mind if Stiles was gone. “Stiles, I know you’re still in there,” he said softly. “I know you can hear me.” He inched forward slowly, little by little.

Stiles growled again loudly, Derek struggling to keep his wolf at bay, and when Stiles swiped at him with one clawed hand, Derek recoiled when it slashed across his arm. The wounds healed instantly, but he flashed his eyes at Stiles and bared his human teeth at him.

“Stop it,” he snapped, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. Stiles just kept growling, stalking to the left a little bit, pressed up against the cave wall.

Derek hated that he couldn’t do this, but he knew why Stiles was reacting like this. Because Derek was a Beta, and Stiles was an Beta, and they were both on the same level. Derek couldn’t make him listen, couldn’t make him _stop_  or follow or do anything.

Derek needed an Alpha.

It chafed, but he needed Scott.

Taking another step back to put a bit of distance between them, just in case Stiles tried to attack him by surprise, Derek reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He had to bring it up higher because he didn’t want to take his eyes off Stiles. After three years, he wasn’t going to look away from him for even a second, if he could help it.

He thumbed through his contacts quickly, the sight of Stiles’ name in the list not hurting as much today as it had any other day. Scott’s was right above it and he hit his name, pressing the call button.

Derek put the phone to his ear, eyes still locked on the growling body in front of him, the sound making his gums itch and his hackles rise in defence. It was taking everything he had not to growl back, but he knew that would only invite Stiles to attack him. It would be considered a challenge.

The phone rang and rang until it clicked to voicemail.

_“Hi, you’ve reached Scott McCall, I ca—”_

Derek hung up and called again, putting the phone back to his ear. Stiles had shifted back a bit further, pressing himself closer to the filthy cave wall, bright blue eyes shining out at him through the darkness. He must have moved into an acoustically rich part of the cave because his growling seemed to be echoing, Derek feeling it in his bones.

When he went to voicemail a second time, he knew Scott was ignoring him. Unsurprising, given they hadn’t spoken in over a year, but it irked him that Scott was screening his calls.

Derek had nothing to say to him, ever, so obviously it would be important if he was calling.

Frustrated, he knew Stiles wasn’t going anywhere given he was blocking the exit, so despite not wanting to, he took his eyes off him to glance down at his phone, opening a text message and sending three words.

 **[Derek]**  
I found Stiles

He watched the message send, eyes shooting back up to Stiles, making sure he was still there. Obviously he was still there, but after _three years_ , Derek wasn’t taking any chances.

Twenty seconds after the text was sent, his phone rang, Scott’s name flashing back at him. Stiles growled louder at the vibrating sound and bared his teeth, the only purely white thing in the cave right then.

Derek answered the call and had barely raised the phone to his ear when Scott was speaking.

_“Where is he? Is he okay? Let me talk to him, put him on!”_

Stiles was growling even louder now, as if Scott’s voice was threatening to him. Derek wondered if his feral-mind could somehow determine even over the phone that Scott was an Alpha.

“He can’t come to the phone right now. He’s not—okay.”

The sharp inhale on the other end made him realize he hadn’t chosen the right words, especially since Scott followed up with a slightly hysterical note to his tone.

_“Is he alive?! Derek, is he alive?! Where are you?! What happened?!”_

“He’s alive,” Derek confirmed, and he had never been so happy in his life to be able to say those words. The past three years had been _hell_ , not knowing where Stiles was, what was happening to him, if he _was_  even alive.

Having him here, despite the obvious concern of him being a feral Werewolf, was the biggest relief Derek had ever experienced in his life.

_“What happened? Where are you? What’s that sound?”_

Derek jumped, having momentarily forgotten Scott was on the phone with him because Stiles had started moving. He’d stalked over to the other side of the cave, still eying Derek warily and growling, then settled protectively over a mass of clothes, leaves and animal innards. It was probably where he was sleeping.

Lovely. No wonder he smelled like death.

“Stiles,” Derek said, answering Scott’s question. Or, one of them, at least.

_“Stiles? What do you— **Stiles** is making that noise?”_

“Yes.”

_“Why?”_

“How fast do you think you can make it to the south lot of the Preserve?”

_“I don’t—I’m not home. I’m in the next county over with Deaton.”_

“How fast, Scott?”

_“A couple hours?”_

“Good. Start driving. Follow my scent when you find my car.”

Derek hung up.

* * *

Stiles did not like having another Werewolf in his space, but Derek didn’t give two shits right then about what Stiles did and didn’t like. Derek had parked his ass in the entrance to the cave, and hadn’t taken his eyes off Stiles since hanging up with Scott.

For the most part, Stiles just growled and hovered around his nest, but occasionally he shifted forward slightly and scented the air, as if curious about Derek. He obviously knew Derek was a Werewolf, but given Derek himself had never gone feral, he had no idea how Stiles’ mind was working.

Did a part of him even recognize Derek? Did he understand that he was a human being under all his snarling, or was the wolf fully in control? Had he been a wolf for too long? Where had he _been_  all this time?! Surely not in this cave, given his clothes looked relatively new—if a little dirty—and it looked like he’d only killed a few animals to drag back there. Even Parrish had said the dead deer had only cropped up yesterday, as far as he knew.

Stiles had obviously been in the woods for longer, given the animal Derek had found first, but probably not for longer than a week. So, what? Had his feral mind remembered his home and brought him back this far? Would he have ended up on the sheriff’s doorstep before long?

If that was true, then Stiles _had_  to be in there somewhere. Derek just had to pull him back out.

He had no idea how he was going to _do_  that, but one problem at a time. First things first, they had to get him out of this cave and somewhere safe, where he wasn’t going to get shot by hunters, capital H or otherwise.

It occurred to him that he hadn’t called John yet. Hadn’t said anything to him about this yet. He didn’t know how he was going to do that. He couldn’t go the night without telling him, but he definitely knew he couldn’t tell him right _now_. John would come out to the Preserve and get lost trying to find them, so it was best they get Stiles out of there first, _then_  he could think about the sheriff.

He did check his phone though, just in case, and had a text from him asking if he was still alive. Derek just responded he would be back when he could and the sheriff seemed to accept that answer.

He didn’t text again.

Derek was still sitting in the cave entrance watching Stiles when he heard leaves crunching and fast footfalls approaching from the same direction he’d come from. Stiles heard them too, and his growling went up a notch and turned threatening.

Pounding footsteps neared them, and Derek thought he might have heard a second set, which made sense if Scott had been with Deaton. He hoped he wasn’t leaving the Druid too far behind, it was dark, and Deaton didn’t have night vision like they did.

Scott exploded out of the trees to his left a few seconds later, practically tripping over Derek in his haste to get into the cave, but before he’d even opened his mouth to say Stiles’ name, Stiles let out a roar that shook the entire area they were in and launched himself at Scott.

Though Derek had also rushed in, he’d managed to stop himself just inside the cave entrance, something Scott hadn’t done.

His fast approach had been seen as an attack, and Derek rolled out of the way to avoid Scott falling on top of him. Stiles only got the upper hand because he’d startled Scott, and when he pulled back one hand to slice through Scott’s throat, Derek hastily grabbed his wrist and hauled him off.

“What the hell!” Scott shouted, scrambling back as Deaton came through the trees, breathing hard and sweating. Derek struggled with Stiles, managing to grab both his arms and crossing them over Stiles’ own chest, but now that Stiles was a Werewolf, he was much stronger than before. It was hard to keep his hold on him, and he was thrashing and flailing, roaring again and struggling to pull free.

And succeeding. Derek didn’t know where this was coming from, but Stiles was pulling free and Derek was struggling to keep his hold on him.

“Scott,” Derek snapped angrily. “Make him submit!”

“What?” Scott asked, still lying on his ass on the ground just beyond the cave entrance. He looked pale, and scared, and confused. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Scott, _now_!” Derek shouted, getting an elbow to the gut and then claws to the face. He managed to turn his head away to avoid losing an eye, but Stiles was on him, slamming him back against the cave wall, and Derek was positive he was about to get eviscerated when a loud, powerful howl slammed into him so hard he felt all the air rush out of his lungs.

Stiles dropped him instantly, backing away from him and turning to look at Scott. He’d crouched slightly so he was lower to the ground, and let out a small sound that was a cross between a whine and a growl. He shifted his head, as if he were about to bare his neck, but didn’t quite make the action believable. His chin was only _just_  tilted, eyes lowered, but any Alpha who _wasn’t_  his best friend would’ve been furious at the disrespect.

That in itself was surprising to Derek, because the howl had been so powerful it took everything Derek had not to offer his own throat, but he managed to resist, because he would _not_  submit to Scott. _Ever_.

He swiped one angry hand across his healed face, trying to clear the blood off, and moved cautiously around Stiles, who was still crouched on the ground with his throat partially bared.

“Derek,” Scott bit out, voice still holding a touch of his Alpha power and making Derek’s shoulders tense. “What the _fuck_  is going on?”

“In case it’s not perfectly obvious,” Derek snapped at him, eyes still on Stiles, “he’s a Werewolf.”

“Yeah, I got that part. Why did he attack us?”

“He attacked _you_ ,” Derek spat, glancing over at Scott with a scowl, “because you barrelled into his territory. Didn’t you smell he was different?”

“No,” Scott insisted, eyes bright red and jaw clenched. “I smelled you, and Stiles. So I came.”

“I told you he wasn’t okay,” Derek insisted, wiping more blood from his face. “He almost fucking killed me.”

“You should’ve _told_  me he was a Werewolf, and I would’ve approached with more _caution_!”

“Perhaps now isn’t the time,” Deaton said before Derek could rip into Scott. The tension was making Stiles growl again, and he looked a little less willing to submit to Scott with the way things were going. Derek bit his tongue, because he knew his attitude was making it worse. He was a Beta mouthing off at an Alpha. Stiles’ mind may not have been all there, but the wolf would pick up on the weakness in Scott if Derek kept speaking to him like that.

“What’s wrong with him?” Scott asked softly. “Why is he... why is he like that?”

“He’s feral,” Derek said, watching Stiles carefully for any indication he was going to attack him again.

“That... is not good,” Deaton said slowly.

“No, it isn’t,” Derek agreed, turning to give Scott a look before he could ask. “We need to get him out of here.”

“How do you propose we do that?” Scott asked dryly. “Ask him nicely?”

“I was thinking more we tranq him, but if you think asking nicely will work, by all means,” Derek said sarcastically with a smile that was all teeth.

Before Scott could snap something back at him, Deaton placed one hand on his shoulder. “There are some items at the clinic we could use. Regular tranquilizers won’t work on a Werewolf, but perhaps some laced with Wolfsbane to weaken him.”

Derek didn’t like that. It was clear from Scott’s expression that he didn’t, either. But it wasn’t like they had much of a choice. Stiles wasn’t going to follow them out, and he looked extremely hostile right then, hardly submitting to Scott but unsure if he wanted to be regardless. If they didn’t move quickly, Stiles was going to slam through them by force and run off.

He’d lost him once, no fucking way in _hell_  was Derek losing him again.

Deaton gave Scott directions on where to go and what to get, since he could make it to the clinic and back quickly. Scott looked unhappy with having to leave, but he obeyed after he was sure he had a proper list and took off with one last look over his shoulder at Stiles. Deaton motioned for Derek to move back while pulling a jar from his pocket.

Within seconds, he’d erected a barrier of mountain ash at the cave’s entrance, which was at least slightly comforting for Derek, because it meant Stiles couldn’t escape.

They were both silent while they stared into the opening, watching Stiles growl and begin to stalk back and forth, eying them with distrust. With Scott gone, it was just a Beta and a human, and Stiles’ feral brain probably figured he could take them.

Derek didn’t want to talk to Deaton about this, because he was well aware of what was happening right now, but Deaton made the decision for him, saying softly, “This is not good.”

“I know,” Derek grit out, crossing his arms and staring at Stiles, trying to ignore the ache in his chest.

“We might be too late.”

“We’ll get him back,” Derek insisted sharply, not looking at Deaton. “We’ll figure something out. There has to be a way.”

“You know there isn’t,” Deaton said softly, not unkindly. “If he has been feral for an extended period of time, you know there’s no coming back from that. Your mother would not have put down so many if it were possible.”

Derek knew that. He _knew_  that. But this was Stiles. It wasn’t a random feral Werewolf, or an acquaintance, or even a friend. It was fucking _Stiles_. And no matter what he was, no matter how dangerous he became, Derek wasn’t going to let him get taken out.

He hadn’t allowed it when Stiles was the Nogitsune and he sure as fuck wasn’t going to allow it now. He’d figure something out. He’d get him tame, he’d work to bring back his humanity, he’d... just _do_  something. But he wouldn’t let anyone kill him. Over his dead fucking body.

Scott came back a few minutes later with a bag of items. Stiles started growling low in his throat at the sight of him again but they all ignored him while Deaton began putting everything together, Scott holding his phone aloft with the flashlight function on so he could see what he was doing. Derek just kept his eyes on Stiles.

Stiles growled again at the clear challenge, baring his teeth and flashing his eyes. Derek responded in kind, because he could only stand being insulted for so long before his hackles rose, even if it _was_  Stiles. His snarl was far more impressive than Stiles’, which he seemed to realize because he eyed Derek with interest, seemed to form some kind of opinion of him, then huffed unhappily and turned to lie down in his nest.

“I would suggest we plan before we knock him out,” Deaton said, lifting the small gun he was holding and inspecting it to ensure it was properly loaded. “While powerful with the wolfsbane, he will not remain unconscious for long.”

“Well, what do we do? Bring him home?”

“No,” Derek insisted, looking at Scott like he was an idiot. Which he was, clearly. “He’s unstable, he’ll attack anyone he sees, especially if they’re alone. You want to be responsible for Stiles killing his own father?”

“Well what do _you_  suggest?” Scott snapped, narrowing his eyes. “This was all _your_  idea, so getting him out of here works only as well as the plan _you_  had. Which was non-existent.”

Derek glared at him, the two of them having a staring match. Deaton dutifully ignored them in favour of fiddling with the tranq gun he held.

Turning back to Stiles, Derek didn’t know what they could do. They couldn’t bring him home, that was a terrible idea. They couldn’t bring him anywhere close to humans, and they had to be careful about the noise he was going to make. What they needed was an isolated location. Somewhere close, but not _too_  close. Away from people, where the amount of noise he made wouldn’t be a problem. And somewhere closed off, to ensure nobody accidentally stumbled upon it.

Derek’s brain stuttered to a halt when he realized he had the perfect place. He just really, _really_  didn’t like it.

“We’ll bring him to the loft,” he said, turning to look at Deaton. “We can surround the first floor with mountain ash so he won’t escape, but he can move freely within.”

Deaton nodded once, eyes pensive. “That could work. I would suggest we block off areas such as the kitchen, to avoid any complications.”

He meant fires, but Derek appreciated that he didn’t elaborate. He couldn’t imagine how he’d have felt if he showed up to the loft in flames knowing Stiles was trapped inside because of the barriers. The very thought was making his stomach roll over unpleasantly, trying not to let memories surface.

“Once he’s out, Scott can go ahead with you to get the loft ready.” Derek dug his keys from his pocket and pulled the appropriate one off for them.

“I can’t touch mountain ash,” Scott reminded him acidly.

“You can see in the dark and Deaton can’t make it back through the woods on his own,” Derek snapped. “If you want to wait for me, that’s fine, but you need to get him out first so he can get started on the loft before Stiles gets there.”

“Why can’t _you_ lead him out while _I_ take care of Stiles?”

“ _I_ found him,” Derek spat angrily.

“He’s _my_  friend!” Scott shot back.

Stiles let out an angry growl from his nest, and Derek turned to glance at him. Blue eyes were shining out at them again, and he looked displeased with the interruption to his attempted slumber. Letting out a slow breath, Derek turned back to Scott.

“For once in your fucking life, can you just do as I say?” Derek demanded, voice low. “I will be right behind you.”

It looked like Scott was going to argue, but Deaton told him that it didn’t matter who took Stiles as long as they moved quickly. And unfortunately for Scott, they both knew that Derek was faster than him. That cut the argument short, and Deaton handed the tranq gun over to Derek.

“I will break the barrier,” he said, moving closer, watching Derek for a moment. “Please allow us five minutes head start.”

He nodded, then watched as Deaton bent down to break the mountain ash line. He disappeared quickly with Scott, Derek moving into the entrance once more to ensure Stiles didn’t try and barrel past him.

He seemed disinterested now, like Scott and Derek’s lack of action had bored him and he figured they were a non-threat. He was just lying in his nest of dirty clothes, animal innards and dead leaves. There wasn’t a clean spot on him, everything dirt-smeared or bloody, clothes ripped and fraying at the seams. Derek just watched him while he settled, trying to get comfortable, though he didn’t close his eyes, keeping the bright blue locked on Derek in the entrance.

It hurt to see those bright blue eyes. Derek knew Stiles, he knew how much he valued human life. Any life, really. He wasn’t one to kill someone lightly, so whatever had happened to him, the blue eyes were going to hurt when he came back to himself.

And he would, Derek knew he would, because he was going to do everything in his power to ensure Stiles came back.

He wasn’t entirely sure how much time had passed, but over five minutes for certain. He really hoped Scott and Deaton were moving quickly, because he didn’t want Stiles waking up while the loft was still being dealt with.

He almost wanted to apologize for what he was about to do, but it wasn’t like Stiles would understand him anyway. So he shifted to ensure he could block any escape attempts if he missed, and then aimed the tranq at Stiles, firing.

It hit him in the shoulder and Stiles jerked upright, letting out an angry snarl and starting for Derek before his eyes flagged and he stumbled, crashing face first to the ground.

Shoving the gun into the back of his jeans, Derek rushed forward and grabbed Stiles by the armpits. He winced at the stench, but didn’t dwell on it, ripping the tranq out of his arm and then tossing him over his shoulder. Turning, he bolted back the way he’d come, following Scott’s most recent scent so that he wasn’t making a giant detour from his first attempt to reach the cave. He could hear Stiles’ shallow breaths and occasional soft growls, but he didn’t move and his heart sounded slow and sluggish. Derek really hoped he stayed unconscious long enough to get him out of the Camaro, or he was going to be pissed about the ruined upholster.

When he exited the woods into the lot, it was empty save for his Camaro and he rushed to it, shoving Stiles into the back seat and then climbing into the front. He hit the gas, shooting out of the lot and down the long road leading out of the Preserve, pulling his phone out while he went. He hit a name in his contacts and put it to his ear.

_“Derek.”_

“Jordan, you on patrol tonight?” he asked, eying his rear-view mirror to check on Stiles. Still out of it.

_“Yeah, why?”_

“I need you to come to the Preserve and clear a path for me to the loft. I’m going to be speeding pretty badly, and I _cannot_ get pulled over.”

_“Okay, which road are you coming from?”_

Derek gave him his location and Parrish said he’d be right there before he hung up. When he emerged from the trees, Parrish was waiting and he immediately cut on his siren and led the way to the loft. There weren’t too many cars around, but it was more the being pulled over aspect of his speeding that he was worried about as opposed to the traffic. This was Beacon Hills, there _was_  no traffic.

They reached the loft quickly, Derek hoping Stiles stayed unconscious for a while longer. Parrish parked beside Deaton’s car while Derek slammed on the brakes and turned off the engine. He leapt from his seat and yanked open the back door, dragging Stiles out and throwing him over his shoulder once more.

“Holy shit!” Parrish said, following behind Derek while he hurried for the door. “Is that—?”

“Yes,” Derek said, climbing the stairs quickly towards the loft.

“Does the sheriff know?”

“Not yet, I’m telling him once we have Stiles contained.”

“Contained?”

“Not now, Parrish,” Derek insisted, entering the loft.

Scott was moving furniture and various electrical items out of the main area while Deaton slowly created a large circle in the middle of Derek’s living room. That was probably the better idea all around, but it made Derek’s skin crawl at the realization that Stiles would be trapped in a confined area.

Then again, his living room was bigger than the cave, so at least he had that going for him.

He noticed Parrish’s tenseness, eying the mountain ash, and the thin press of his lips suggested he understood that Stiles wasn’t entirely human anymore.

“You were quick,” Deaton commented when he glanced up at them.

Derek hesitated, then asked, “How long do we have?”

“I would say at least ten more minutes, but I can’t be certain.”

“Good enough. Scott, with me. Jordan, help Deaton.”

Derek strode quickly to the bathroom, Scott on his heels. Stiles was a fucking mess, and he had no idea when they would have this opportunity again, so he cut on the shower and then dumped Stiles into the tub as gently as he could while moving quickly.

“Help me clean him up,” Derek ordered, kicking off his boots while wrenching his shirt over his head. He stripped down to his boxer-briefs in seconds and climbed under the spray, adjusting it to something a little more comfortable and then grabbing some soap while holding the shampoo out to Scott.

He’d only stripped off his shirt, and he got to work quickly washing Stiles’ hair while Derek rubbed a washcloth across Stiles’ exposed skin. It was a struggle getting the clothes he wore off, but he managed it with Scott’s help, yanking off the grey shirt and sweats as quickly as they could. Stiles wasn’t wearing anything underneath, but Derek didn’t worry about that right now.

He was back to rubbing at the dirt on his skin when he paused. He felt something beneath his fingers, and as soon as the water had washed away the dirt and suds, he felt his stomach drop.

Scott froze, eyes on the same thing.

“Oh my God...” he breathed, but Derek just gave himself a mental shake and went back to cleaning him.

“Later. Just get him cleaned up.”

It took them eight minutes to get him clean, and Stiles was definitely starting to recover, because he was growling louder than he had in the car, and he could move his fingers.

“Out,” Derek ordered, turning the water off and climbing out. He grabbed a spare towel from under the sink and tossed it to Scott to work on Stiles while he used his own to quickly dry off. Still in his boxer-briefs, he bent down once he was decently dry to help Scott finish up with Stiles before they hauled him out of the tub.

“His hair—”

“We’re out of time,” Derek insisted, the two of them hurrying into the living room.

A majority of it had been carved out with the mountain ash barrier, which was nice, but it cut off around the edges so that Derek and Scott would still be able to move around the loft without being hindered by the barrier. The only items that had been left within the area were the couch, coffee table, and a few books. He didn’t know why Deaton had left the books, probably just in hopes that Stiles would be smart enough to use them as a means to come back to himself.

They dropped Stiles onto the couch and then hastily retreated, Deaton bending down to close off the barrier with the last bit of mountain ash. The closure made Derek’s teeth ache, and he saw Scott wince and roll his shoulders. Even though they were outside, they still felt the power behind it. The way it could trap them if it wanted to.

“What the fuck is going on?” Parrish breathed, looking wide-eyed at Stiles. “What the hell happened to him?”

Derek just shook his head, because he didn’t know, and what they’d seen under the dirt and grime...

He’d been tortured. Stiles had been tortured before he was turned into a Werewolf. And they knew it was before, because his chest and back were marred with deep, ugly scars. Lines of healed skin criss-crossing over one another, some a light white and sunken, others a harsh red and bulging. His chest looked bad, but his back looked worse. He also had smaller pock marks, like someone had either shot him, or taken a hot poker and burned him. Overall, he looked terrible.

Derek had no fucking idea what he was going to tell his father.

“I need to see John,” he said quietly. “I need to tell him about this.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Scott insisted. “He’ll want to see him.”

“Think about what he’ll do to us if he finds out we kept this a secret, and tell me again we shouldn’t let him know we found his son,” Derek snapped.

Scott flashed his eyes at him angrily, and Derek growled, but Parrish just stepped between them.

“Enough. Derek, let’s get the sheriff. Scott, maybe—call your mom?”

“Fine,” Scott bit out.

Derek turned on his heel and headed back into the bathroom to grab his clothes. He dressed quickly, hearing Deaton and Scott give Parrish the cliffnotes of what was going on. Not much of it, but just explaining that Stiles was dangerous right now and they needed to keep him contained, just like Derek had said.

When he’d gotten his boots back on, he exited the bathroom and moved around the large barrier towards the door. It was still open, so he just stepped through and went down the stairs, Parrish following behind him. They were silent the whole way down, and when they got outside, Parrish headed for the cruiser and said he’d meet Derek at the house.

He spent the entire drive there with his hands clenching the wheel of the Camaro so tightly he was sure he’d bend it. He had absolutely no idea what he was going to say to John. They’d found Stiles, but he was feral, and a Werewolf, and had clearly been tortured. They wouldn’t be able to determine what had happened to him unless they could get his human side back which, oh yeah, would be impossible if he’d been forced into his shift for over a certain period of time. Derek felt like it would almost be worse for him to have Stiles back without actually _having_  him back.

He parked on the street like he always did, Parrish taking a spot across from him. They both climbed out at the same time, but Derek didn’t move, staring up at the house and wondering how he was supposed to have this conversation with the sheriff.

Derek wasn’t good with words. He’d never been good with words. This was going to require a lot of words, and he just... didn’t know if he could do it.

Parrish appeared beside him, watching him while Derek just kept staring up at the house.

“What’s going on?” Parrish asked. “You don’t seem happy to have found him.”

“He’s not okay,” Derek said quietly.

“I know, Scott and Deaton told me.”

“No,” Derek insisted, turning to him. “He’s not okay. He’s not... all there anymore.”

Parrish frowned at him, but Derek couldn’t have this conversation twice, so he figured he’d just let him listen when he broke the news to the sheriff.

Sighing, Derek slammed the Camaro door and headed for the porch, Parrish keeping step beside him. They climbed them together and Derek preceded him into the house. The sheriff was still in the living room, and Derek almost let out an annoyed sigh when he smelled beer, but whatever. The alcohol would probably help, in this case.

John turned when he saw him enter, and then stood when he saw Parrish follow him inside.

“Did you find the animal?”

“We need to talk,” Derek said, motioning the kitchen with a jerk of his head. “Now.”

John still drained his can of beer before following and Derek tried to stamp down his annoyance at that, insisting to himself it would probably be better that way.

They all went to the kitchen, Parrish staying by the door with his arms crossed while Derek took a seat at the table, the sheriff across from him. Once they were settled, Derek had no fucking idea how to proceed. Because he knew it wasn’t going to be easy explaining this to him, so before he even mentioned Stiles, he figured the safest thing to do was start with the Werewolf.

“I found what was killing the deer in the woods,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “It’s a Werewolf, but he’s not... okay.”

“Meaning?” the sheriff asked gruffly, arms crossed and frown on his face.

“There’s something Hunters do sometimes. To Werewolves. For sport. If you force a Werewolf to remain in their shift for an extended period of time, the wolf takes over and the human beneath is lost. They usually do it before setting the wolf free in an area so they can hunt it for fun. If the wolf is pushed back, the human can return, but if it isn’t...” Derek’s chest clenched at the thought of Stiles being gone. Of him never coming back. He couldn’t get the words out, he couldn’t tell the sheriff this might be permanent. For now, it was best the sheriff just thought of it as an inconvenience.

He could tell Parrish was a little distressed, given he knew who this Werewolf was, but he dutifully kept his mouth shut and remained in the doorway.

“I found him in a cave. He’s... I don’t know what level he’s at. We might be able to get him back quickly, but I don’t...”

“It might be too late,” the sheriff said with a nod when Derek trailed off. “Well, if we have to put it down, I guess we’ll do what needs doing.”

Derek said nothing, because he knew the sheriff was looking at it logically.

“Where is it?”

“The loft,” Derek said. “I brought him back there and trapped him in a mountain ash barrier. He’s not okay. He was human once, tortured. He has scars. Then he turned into a wolf, and was forced to shift, and now... his eyes are blue, and I don’t... I’m not sure how to help him.”

Derek wasn’t even sure Stiles _could_  be helped, but he refused to let things end like this.

“Well, give it your best shot and if it doesn’t work, we’ll deal with it.” The sheriff groaned, getting to his feet. “If that’s all?”

Derek said nothing. Parrish also said nothing.

That seemed to be noticed, because he looked between them briefly, then narrowed his eyes.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

When Derek continued to remain silent, Parrish hesitantly said, “Sheriff, you’re going to need to understand that he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s not in control, he’s an animal. And he’s dangerous.”

Parrish hadn’t been there for the beginning, so Derek could only assume he’d pieced everything together on his own based on everything he’d seen and heard. It wasn’t a hard situation to put together, which was made clear when John stiffened, and slowly turned back to look at Derek.

“Derek,” he said slowly, his heartrate spiking, “who did you find in the woods?”

“You have to understand,” Derek said quietly, “he doesn’t remember anything. He doesn’t know who he is, or who we are, or—”

The sheriff had already bolted for the exit, but Parrish was still standing in the doorway and just barely managed to keep his footing, pushing the man back. Derek leapt to his feet and grabbed at him, wrenching him away from the kitchen door, even while John elbowed him repeatedly in the gut.

“Stiles! You found Stiles! Derek, _you found Stiles_! Let me go! I have to see him!”

“Sheriff, you need to listen!” Parrish insisted, trying to stop him from continuing to hit at Derek. It didn’t really matter, he could barely feel it, because he understood the sheriff’s desperation.

Three years. It had been three years since Stiles had gone missing, and now he was back. He was wrong, and he was a Werewolf, but he was _back_.

Derek and Parrish easily wrestled the sheriff into a chair, holding him there while he continued to scream for them to just let him go, that he had to see him, tears streaming down his face while they tried to speak over him.

“John, we’re going to let you see him!” Derek snapped, trying to get some control back. “We’re going to bring you to him, but you need to _understand_! You can’t cross the mountain ash barrier. You can’t approach him, or try and hug him, or go anywhere _near_  him. He’s not in control, and he could hurt you. We need you to understand this because the second you’re in the room with him, if you cross the barrier, _no one_ can help you. We cannot cross into it, and he cannot come out. If you go in there, you’re on your own, and he _will_  tear you apart.”

“He’s my _son_!”

“Not right now!” Derek shouted.

The sheriff didn’t stop struggling, but he at least seemed to be listening.

“You don’t understand. He isn’t the Stiles we all knew anymore. He’s a wolf. He’s going to react to things based on animal instinct. If he feels threatened, he’ll attack. If he’s scared, he’ll attack. If he’s bored, he’ll probably tear apart the couch just for fun. You cannot _look_  at him and see Stiles right now, do you understand?”

It took a while to calm the sheriff down, but he finally seemed to compose himself. Just barely.

Derek sent Parrish along first, wanting someone in between the sheriff and Stiles when they reached the loft, and then headed out to the Camaro with John once he was sure Parrish had a good head start.

They drove in silence, but the sheriff was sniffing loudly and seemed ready to lose his mind. Derek could understand, because in John’s defence, he himself had followed Stiles’ scent like a crazed man. But he knew he could handle being sliced and diced by those wicked claws. The sheriff was only human, after all. He wouldn’t heal as quickly.

When they reached the loft, he saw that Melissa’s car was already there. They climbed out and the sheriff raced for the entrance. Derek hurried after him, but he wasn’t too concerned, because Scott and Parrish were in the loft and would stop him before he did anything stupid.

He followed him up the stairs, the man moving remarkably fast for someone his age, and when they entered the loft, Parrish grabbed at the sheriff’s shirt to yank him back before he crossed over the line.

Derek moved up behind them and eased to the left so he could look into the circle.

Stiles was awake again, and he looked extremely unhappy. He was stalking angrily around the edge of the circle on all fours, blue eyes darting between all the people who’d gathered.

“Oh son,” the sheriff said softly, and Derek could smell the salty scent of tears, but he didn’t turn to look at him. “Oh Stiles. Son. What happened to you?”

Stiles barely gave him more than a cursory glance, only having looked because he spoke but evidently deeming him a non-threat. He just circled wide, occasionally ramming his shoulder out against the barrier, as if testing its resistence.

Melissa was on the other side of the room, and while Derek could tell she wanted to cover her mouth and cry, she had a very stony expression, like she was trying to hold it together in front of the sheriff.

The six of them stood there, watching Stiles while he made large circles around his new prison. His hair was long and damp from his shower, he wasn’t wearing any clothes, and almost every inch of skin was littered with scars and healed injuries. He wasn’t fully in his Beta shift, but his eyes were electric blue and his mouth was full of fangs. He clearly didn’t recognize any of them at all, which was extremely worrying, because Derek didn’t know what they would do if Stiles wasn’t still in there somewhere.

“How do we get him back?” John asked.

Derek and Deaton shared a look, because it wasn’t that simple. It wasn’t like flipping a switch between the wolf and the human, not for something like this. They had to forcibly pull Stiles back out, if he was even still in there at all.

“It’s not—”

“Derek,” the sheriff said, an edge of hysteria in his tone, “how do we get him back?”

Derek sighed and raked a hand through his hair, the action making Stiles turn to him and growl low in his throat. He seemed to understand he wasn’t in any immediate danger, but he clearly didn’t like being trapped and on display.

It looked like he was waiting for one of them to jump into his prison and attack him.

“I’ll work on it.”

“ _We_  will work on it,” Scott snapped. “I’m an Alpha.”

“But you’re not a born wolf, and you’re barely even a _decent_  Alpha,” Derek snapped.

“He’s _my_  friend!”

“Yeah, that you _lost_  three years ago!”

“Enough!” Melissa snapped. “Both of you, that is _enough_. It doesn’t matter who’s Alpha and who’s not, or who’s a born wolf and who’s not. All that matters right now is Stiles and _helping_ him. He needs us, so whatever happened between you two stops now. Both of you _grow up_!”

Derek just scowled and crossed his arms, but obediently kept his mouth shut. Scott glowered at him from the other side of the circle.

They all jumped, Stiles included, when Parrish’s radio went off. He cursed, realizing he was still on duty, and turned to leave the apartment, speaking into his radio while heading down the stairs to get back to work.

It was probably for the best. It was late, they were all tired and emotional. Stiles wasn’t going anywhere for the moment, so they could afford to get some rest and try and deal with this in the morning.

Melissa seemed to be of the same mind, because she wrapped her arm around Scott’s shoulders and told him they needed to head out. He didn’t want to, but Melissa was persistent and he relented. He glared at Derek and said he’d be back first thing in the morning. Derek didn’t refuse, but he also wasn’t happy about it.

Deaton followed them out, informing Derek in low tones that he would bring over whatever he could find about ferals. Derek nodded in thanks, then shut the door behind him when he left. Turning back to Stiles, it was just him and the sheriff, who hadn’t taken his eyes off his son since he’d walked into the loft.

“You can take the bed,” Derek said softly. “I’ll...” He glanced at the couch inside the mountain ash circle. “I’ll figure something out.”

“If you think I can sleep tonight, you’re out of your damn mind, Derek.” The sheriff moved across the apartment to the small table by the window, dragging one of the chairs to the edge of the mountain ash barrier and sitting down in it.

Derek wished he could be surprised, but honestly, he was also kind of worried to take his eyes off Stiles right now. It had been hard going to get the sheriff, but he’d known Scott was there. Even now, he knew John would probably be awake all night, but what about in the morning? They both had work.

Fuck, he had to go to the bank with Chuck. Derek couldn’t do that right now, he had more important things to worry about than the shop. Which made him feel guilty, because he was supposed to be taking over, but this was _Stiles_! And if they wanted to get him back before this became permanent—provided it wasn’t already—then he couldn’t waste time in the garage or going to the bank.

Making sure the sheriff was well enough outside the barrier, Derek pulled his phone out while heading upstairs. It was late, a little past eleven by now, but he couldn’t leave this for the morning. So he found Chuck’s number in his phone and called it, apologizing internally for waking him up.

Which he very clearly did if the sleep-gruff voice coming down the line was any indication.

 _“A particular reason you decided to call me this late at night, kid?”_ he asked sleepily.

“Chuck,” Derek said, trying to figure out how to explain what was going on without, well, _explaining_  what was going on. “Sorry.”

There was a short pause on the other end, and then he heard Chuck sit up with a groan. _“Son, what’s going on?”_

“I need to take some time off. I know it doesn’t fit into our agreement, and I don’t have the right to ask, but—”

 _“Bullshit,”_ Chuck interrupted gruffly. _“Do you have any idea how many days off you’ve taken since you started working at the shop?”_

Great, he’d pissed him off. Derek’s hand tightened around the phone, ready to defend himself, but he paused when Chuck continued.

 _“None. You’ve taken **no**  days off, kid. Because days off taking care of the sheriff don’t count. When was the last time you took a day for you? Never, that’s when. And I reckon the time off you need now isn’t for you either, is it?”_ Before Derek could even answer, Chuck continued. _“‘Course it ain’t. It’s for someone else, because you’re that kinda guy, Hale. So you take all the time you need, and I’ll watch the shop for you until you’re ready to come back. Lloyd can pick up some more shifts, lazy bastard needs more exercise anyway.”_

It was weird. Hearing someone reprimand him for caring about others was weird. It’d been a long time since he truly felt like people cared about him, but he’d always known deep down Chuck had a soft spot. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have offered him the shop.

“Thanks Chuck,” he said quietly. “I’m really sorry about this. I can still come tomorrow if you really need me to, but—”

 _“I look like I need your help, wiseass?”_ Chuck interrupted. He was silent for a moment, then his voice softened a degree before he said, _“Don’t worry about me, or the shop. You do what needs doing. Lloyd and I will handle the rest until you’re back.”_

“Thank you. I really appreciate this.”

Chuck grunted in response, then said, _“If you need anything, you know where to find me. You take care of yourself. Don’t be a stranger.”_

“Thanks. Sorry I woke you.”

 _“Shut up. See you when I see you, kid.”_ Chuck hung up.

Derek set his phone down on the nightstand and rubbed at his face before falling onto his bed.

He didn’t think he would sleep, not with Stiles pacing anxiously downstairs and the sheriff’s pounding heart.

So he just lay on his bed and stared up at the ceiling, listening to the sounds coming from downstairs, and hoping they weren’t too late to save Stiles.

* * *

Derek had just stepped out of the shower when he heard his phone go off upstairs. It had been dinging constantly for the past few minutes, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing, but he didn’t dwell on it too much.

The sheriff had passed out in the chair by the edge of the barrier, and Stiles had, as predicted, torn apart Derek’s couch and used the insides of the cushions to make a small nest in the corner, which he was currently snoozing on.

It was the corner closest to the windows, sun beaming down on him. He opened his eyes and growled softly every time Derek moved around the area, but whenever he was out of sight—either upstairs or in the bathroom—he quieted down. Derek was getting annoyed with all the growling though, so while he knew it was childish, he’d started growling back, flashing his eyes at Stiles.

Stiles didn’t appreciate that and would scowl and growl a bit louder. Derek knew if they had an all-out war he would emerge victorious, but it would definitely wake the sheriff, so he restrained himself.

For now.

He just didn’t like another wolf challenging him in his own home, even if that wolf happened to be Stiles. In a way, it wasn’t even Stiles. It was just an animal, and that hurt.

Reaching his room, his phone was still dinging on the nightstand, but he ignored it so he could pull some clothes on, getting into his jeans and a black tee before moving barefoot to the bed and snatching his phone up off the stand.

It had been a long time since he’d seen the Pack chat used, and it was almost weird to realize that constant dinging was happening because they were speaking to each other again. He hadn’t thought that would ever happen, but he should’ve figured if there was anyone who could bring the Pack back together, it was Stiles.

 **[Scott]**  
we found stiles

 **[Lydia]**  
What?  
**[Lydia]**  
Are you serious?  
**[Lydia]**  
Scott, this better not be a joke, or I will rip your head off.  
**[Lydia]**  
Are you serious?

 **[Liam]**  
YOU FOUND STILES?!?!?!?!?!  
**[Liam]**  
OMG is he okay>! where is he?! what hapepened?!

 **[Malia]**  
where r u?  
**[Malia]**  
i’m coming back

 **[Lydia]**  
SCOTT MCCALL, you ANSWER ME right now!

 **[Scott]**  
sorry  
**[Scott]**  
its been a long night  
**[Scott]**  
we found stiles its not a joke  
**[Scott]**  
and no hes not ok  
**[Scott]**  
hes a wolf

 **[Mason]**  
Shit.  
**[Mason]**  
But is he okay otherwise?

 **[Malia]**  
where r u???  
**[Malia]**  
BH?  
**[Malia]**  
i’m coming back

 **[Lydia]**  
Where was he? What happened to him?

 **[Scott]**  
we dont know  
**[Scott]**  
were worlking on it

 **[Lydia]**  
I’m coming home.

 **[Liam]**  
i’ll call my dad and get on a flight asap

 **[Mason]**  
I’ll head back too.

 **[Derek]**  
See you soon.

There was nothing for Derek to add, so he just typed the one thing and opened another message.

 **[Derek]**  
Stiles has been found.

He didn’t have to wait long. The response came within ten seconds.

 **[Peter]**  
Malia just told me. I’m heading back now. Will take me a few days.  
**[Peter]**  
Try not to lose him before I get there.

 **[Derek]**  
He’s feral.

 **[Peter]**  
Then you better hope I get there quickly.

He didn’t know why Peter thought his presence would make a difference, but he also knew Peter was well-versed in the inner workings of feral minds. He was older than Derek, and he’d been raised with the same knowledge as Talia, which meant he might have more ideas on how to bring Stiles back.

Shoving his phone into his pocket, he headed back downstairs, Stiles opening his eyes and grumbling unhappily at the sight of him. Derek just flashed his eyes and bared his fangs at him again, but Stiles seemed tired of the game and didn’t react, he just watched Derek walk over to the sheriff.

Setting one hand on his shoulder, he gave him a gentle shake and the sheriff started awake, looking up at Derek, and then over at Stiles. His eyes began to water and he brought both hands up to rub at them.

“I thought it was a dream,” he admitted.

“Not a dream,” Derek said softly, eying Stiles. “I’m going to grab some groceries. I doubt he’ll eat anything I have here. Once I’m back, you should head to work.”

“If you think—”

“John, you’re not going to do any good for him right now,” Derek insisted with a scowl. “You’re going to obsess, and you’re almost out of vacation time. You need to go to _work_. You need a _distraction_. Once your shift is over, you can come right back. I won’t stop you. But you are an _adult_ , and you need to go to work before you get fired.”

That wasn’t the only reason Derek wanted the sheriff out of the loft. He needed him gone so he could figure out what he was going to do. They hadn’t told the sheriff that this might be permanent, and Derek had no idea how long he would last being around the man and keeping that secret.

Deaton had said he’d come by with some books, and Derek knew he had a few himself from Peter’s vault, but this really wasn’t territory he was familiar with. He had a few friends abroad who might have some guidance for him, but he was honestly worried all of them would say it was a lost cause.

Was there even a way to determine how long Stiles had been shifted? Derek honestly didn’t know. This was all new territory for him, and it killed him not having anyone to help. Peter was the best source he had right now, which was not comforting or encouraging.

The sheriff was silent and scowling, but his eyes were on Stiles and Derek didn’t want to argue with him right now. He just headed for the door, having to edge around the barrier, and left the loft. He didn’t want to leave the sheriff alone with Stiles for too long, so he hurried down the stairs to the Camaro and headed for the store.

He had no idea what he should be getting for Stiles, because he didn’t have any experience with this. He assumed meat, so when he reached the store, he just went straight to the fresh meat and grabbed a few packs of various items. He didn’t worry about what they were, he just grabbed as many as he could carry and headed for the checkout.

The cashier looked tired while checking him out, but cocked an eyebrow at the fact that he’d literally just bought a whole bunch of meat.

“Having a barbecue?”

“No.”

Derek’s curt tone made it clear he should keep his mouth shut, so he finished up ringing him through and Derek paid with his card before grabbing his bag and heading back out to the Camaro. He was halfway back to the loft before realizing he hadn’t bought anything for himself or the sheriff. Cursing, and knowing the fridge was empty, he had to make a detour or he’d never eat. He stopped at one of the coffee shops in town and bought a few random pastries and sandwiches along with two coffees. He doubted the sheriff would remember to eat anything, and while the food he’d just bought wasn’t great for his diet, it was better than nothing at this point.

Derek scowled when he reached the loft once more, because Scott’s bike was there, which meant he was upstairs already. That annoyed him, because Scott was acting like he could solve everything, and while a part of Derek acknowledged he was just as desperate to see Stiles as the rest of them, he was still pissed about his presence.

When he’d climbed the stairs and entered the loft, Scott and the sheriff were on the other side of the room, both staring down at Stiles. He was growling low in his throat angrily, still in his nest of couch fluff. He turned to Derek when he entered, and growled deeper.

“Shut up,” Derek muttered, moving around the circle and dropping his bags on the table, holding the drink tray out to the sheriff so he could grab one of the cups.

He took one with a nod of thanks, eyes still on his son, and Scott scowled at him while Derek set his own coffee on the table.

“What took you so long?”

“Are you timing me, now?” Derek snapped. “I’m not allowed to go out and get food for myself _and_  Stiles?”

“You took too long,” Scott insisted. “You’re wasting time.”

“And what are _you_  doing?” Derek snapped, reaching angrily into the grocery bag and pulling out a pack of meat. “You’re just _standing_  there staring at him. Real helpful, Scott. Great Alpha instincts.”

Scott’s eyes flashed angrily and Derek bared his teeth in response, but that made Stiles let out a _loud_  growl and they both turned back to him. He was staring at Scott like he didn’t like him. Derek assumed it was because of the forced submission from the day before, but it also occurred to him that maybe Stiles noticed Derek was holding something that smelled like food.

Suck up to the one with food, it made sense.

Ripping through the plastic wrap around the styrofoam base, Derek moved closer to the mountain ash barrier, a little unsure of how to do this. If he tossed the meat over the line, his floor was going to get dirty really fast. But if he put it on a plate, Stiles would probably break it and have a weapon. Not that he could do much with it, but still.

He was kind of unstable. Derek didn’t really want him to have anything that _could_  be a weapon.

Sighing and deciding he could live with the dirty floor, he tossed the meat over the mountain ash, watching it splat onto the floor, blood oozing out. It looked like steak, though Derek honestly hadn’t been paying attention. He tossed the second one over as well, both of them almost on top of each other. He was at least minimizing the surface area he was staining.

Stiles stared at him for a few seconds, though his face was angled towards the meat, sniffing curiously. He turned to glance at the meat, then looked back at Derek before unfolding himself from his nest and heading over to it. He poked at it curiously, glanced at Derek, curled his lips back, then turned and headed back for his nest.

Derek frowned.

“What happened?” Scott asked. “Why isn’t he eating it?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I mean I don’t _know_ , Scott!” Derek snapped, turning to him. “Do _you_  know? Do _you_  know why Stiles won’t eat meat? Because I sure as fuck don’t!”

“Well what _do_ you know?” Scott demanded angrily. “You seemed to _not know_ a lot!”

Derek opened his mouth to rip him a new one when the sheriff interrupted with a loud, “Hey!”

Both of them fell silent and he glared at them both, pointing a finger at each of them in turn.

“Stow that. I don’t care what problem you two have with each other, but it stops _now_. Like Melissa said last night, everyone is going to stop with the animosity. This is about Stiles. Now I know you both care about him in your own way, but you need to remember who _I_ am.” His eyes hardened into shards of green glass. “I don’t care if I have to put a mountain ash line at the loft door to keep you out, the two of you _will_  get along, and we are going to figure this out. Clear?”

He glared much harder at Scott than he did at Derek, so that was nice. Derek appreciated that. Scott just crossed his arms and lowered his gaze, shifting his weight uncomfortably. He probably remembered the last time he’d seen the sheriff. Derek wanted to feel bad for him, but he really didn’t.

“So,” John said, turning to Derek, “what are your thoughts? Any ideas?”

Derek turned back to Stiles, watching him huddle further into the nest. He looked unhappy, like it wasn’t big enough. Which made sense, since it was only the insides of the couch cushions. He might stop at the house later and grab some clothes. Maybe some of Stiles’ own, to both provide more of a cushion, as well as in case it was familiar to him somehow.

He wasn’t optimistic enough to think he could get him back into sweats and a shirt. Lord only knew how he’d ended up in them in the first place.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “He should be hungry, wolves eat a lot.”

“I’ve seen you boys eat,” the sheriff reminded him, also watching his son.

Or at least, the animal wearing his son’s skin.

“Maybe he doesn’t like steak?” Scott offered hesitantly, like he didn’t want to get snapped at for speaking.

Derek headed back for the bag to see what else he had. There was a package of ground turkey he’d grabbed by accident, but he ripped it open and took a handful out, moving back to the barrier and tossing it over. Stiles turned to look over at it, sniffing the air, then huffed and looked away.

He and the sheriff shared a look.

“Real food?” he offered.

“Worth a shot,” Derek muttered, moving back to the table, wiping his dirty hand off on his jeans and then grabbing one of the pastries from the coffee shop. It looked like a chocolate croissant, and he moved back to the barrier with it.

This he tossed right beside Stiles at his nest. Stiles turned to look at it, huffed again, and actually smacked it away like it was offensive. It slid across the floor, stopping a few inches from the edge of the mountain ash.

“Well shit,” Derek said.

What the fuck were they supposed to do now? Stiles wouldn’t eat meat, and he wouldn’t eat pastries. Derek doubted they could go through all the other food groups with better results.

“Perhaps he doesn’t trust us.”

“Jesus!” Derek snapped, whipping towards the door where Deaton was standing.

They’d been so focussed on Stiles none of them had heard him approach. Derek felt a little less embarrassed by that when he realized Scott hadn’t noticed, either. The sheriff was rubbing at his chest, like his heart had jerked in fright.

“What?” Derek asked once he’d gotten over being startled. People didn’t often startle him, it was rather unpleasant and he didn’t look forward to the next time.

“We found him, rendered him unconscious, took him from his temporary home, and trapped him inside a barrier he can’t seem to escape.” Deaton was watching Stiles while he spoke. “I would imagine he isn’t very fond of us, and he likely doesn’t believe we’re looking out for him. He’s probably looking at the food as something dangerous. Either a test, or even something that could be poisoned.”

“So he won’t eat,” John muttered. “Great.”

Derek turned back to look at Stiles, wondering if that was it. He thought about maybe going out to catch a rabbit or a deer for him, but if Deaton’s assumption was correct, it wouldn’t really do much good. It didn’t matter what they put in front of him, he wasn’t going to eat it so long as he thought they were trying to poison him.

It made his stomach twist horribly to realize maybe people _had_  poisoned him. Maybe whoever had him had given him food laced with wolfsbane, made him sick, used food as another means of torture. Maybe they’d teased him with food, and when he was stupid enough to take it, they’d punished him. So many possibilities, and Derek didn’t know what to do. How to make him understand they were trying to help.

They all stood in silence for a long moment before Derek turned and went back to the bag of meat. He ripped open another pack of steak, then moved around the barrier so he was right in front of Stiles. That earned him a scowl and a low rumble, since he was blocking the sun Stiles had obviously been enjoying, but Derek didn’t care. He crouched in front of him, picked up one of the steaks, and took a bite out of it.

He heard Scott make a noise of disgust from behind him, but Derek ignored him. Meat was meat, he’d eaten raw meat before when he was a wolf. The only difference was he looked human right now, but the taste didn’t change. His human teeth made it harder to rip into it, but he wasn’t willing to wolf out even partially in front of Stiles right now.

Taking another bite, he chewed it while maintaining eye contact with Stiles, feeling blood on his chin, and then gently tossed the rest over the line so it landed right in front of him. Stiles’ jerked up slightly in his nest, staring down at the meat. His eyes skirted back and forth between Derek and the meat, the other scowling slightly before leaning forward and sniffing it. He reached out with one clawed hand, poking around at it and growling softly. He started to drag it closer, then seemed to think better of it and let it go, lying back down in his nest.

“John, can you come get it back for me?” Derek asked, eyes still on Stiles, who was staring at him with his eyebrows down in a small scowl.

“Am I gonna lose a hand?” John muttered, but he obeyed and approached slowly, Stiles’ eyes snapping to him when he closed the distance. Derek moved over slightly to give the sheriff room and he hesitated before reaching over the line and quickly grabbing the meat. Stiles jerked up again once it was back on their side of the mountain ash barrier and Derek took it from him.

While he wasn’t thrilled about taking another bite, given it had been on his floor which wasn’t exactly clean, he just reminded himself he ate rabbits in the forest and sometimes ended up with dirt and leaves in his mouth.

Derek slowly and methodically took a bite out of every part of the steak Stiles had touched, as if trying to prove to him that it was safe to eat. When he thought he’d gotten all the relevant parts that had been touched, he tossed it back over the mountain ash line.

Stiles still hesitated, eying him suspiciously, but he was faster to grab at the meat this time, pulling it closer and sniffing at it. He kept looking between the meat and Derek, hesitating, like he was waiting for someone to grab it out of his hands.

He went to bite at it, but didn’t, like he’d been using that action to see if they would steal his food away. When it was clear they wouldn’t, he finally bit into it, eyes still locked on Derek. He wolfed it down in record time, licking the juices off his fingers and lips. Derek grabbed the second one, took a few bites out of it for good measure, then tossed it over the line.

There was less hesitation this time, Stiles grabbing at it and practically inhaling it.

John let out a slow breath beside Derek, patting his shoulder once before getting back to his feet from his crouched position, his knees popping loudly while he stood.

Stiles seemed to trust the food wasn’t poisoned—for now, at least—and that they weren’t going to steal it back from him, because he turned to grab at the other meat Derek had originally thrown into his prison and gobbled them down quickly. One thing that made Derek a little happy was that Stiles sniffed at the pastry and then ate that, too. He was eating human food, so he couldn’t be _entirely_  lost in there.

He hoped.

“We should begin our research,” Deaton said from closer to the door.

“Right.” Derek stood and turned to the sheriff. “You need to go to work.”

When John opened his mouth to argue, Derek just stared pointedly at Stiles, who was still licking at his fingers, seeming somewhat delighted at the taste of chocolate that lingered on them from the croissant.

“When Stiles comes back to himself,” he said, avoiding saying _if_ , “he’s going to wonder what you’ve been up to the past three years. Do you really want him to know you’ve spent more time drunk at home than doing your job like you should’ve been?”

He could tell the sheriff thought that was a low blow, but Derek didn’t care. He needed him out of the loft so he could panic in peace over the fact that Stiles might never come back.

“You called me three years ago, because you knew I could find your son,” Derek said softly. “I did. I found him. Now let me _help_  him.”

John didn’t like it, and it was obvious to all of them, but he let out a harsh exhale and muttered, “Fine.” He turned to grab one of the pastries from the bag on the table, Derek dutifully not saying anything about it, then looked back over at him, pointing a finger at him with the same hand. “Anything changes in his condition, anything at all, you _call_  me. Do you understand? If you keep anything from me, Derek Hale, remember I know how to kill a Werewolf.”

Scott shot him a look at that, but Derek dutifully didn’t look at him, nodding his understanding.

“I’ll keep you updated.” He pulled his keys from his pocket and tossed them over. The sheriff almost dropped them since he had a coffee in one hand and the pastry in the other.

Derek had been the one to drive last night, so the sheriff had no way to get home to the cruiser. While he wasn’t happy to hand over the keys to his Camaro to anyone except Stiles, he’d settle for his father. Anything to get him out of there, at any rate.

The sheriff cast one last long look at his son, then headed for the door, continuing to glance back at him, as if making sure he was still there. Eventually, he had to exit the loft, and Derek listened to him climb down the stairs and finally exit the building.

“You haven’t told him,” Scott accused. “That it might be permanent.”

“One thing at a time,” Derek muttered. He’d implied it, anyway. He was sure the sheriff understood, he probably just didn’t want to _believe_  it.

“You should make your way to work, as well,” Deaton told Scott, moving to the table with the books he’d brought.

“What?” Scott asked, offended. “No, I’m staying here! I’m helping!”

“Scott,” Deaton said calmly, turning to look over at him. “I cannot have the clinic unattended, and I would imagine my expertise on the matter far outweighs your own. One of us has to be there, and given the urgency in returning Mr. Stilinski to his human state, I would think I would be better suited to be here. If you disagree, I can go to work and you can remain here and research with Derek.”

Usually, Derek hated Deaton. The guy was frustratingly cryptic and infuriatingly even-tempered. Right now, though? Derek could’ve fucking _kissed_  him. Because he didn’t want Scott here any more than Scott wanted to be near him.

A part of him wondered if Deaton was doing it for Stiles’ sake, since Derek and Scott snarking at each other probably wasn’t good for his development.

Scott tried the puppy eyes on Deaton, asking if they couldn’t just close the clinic, but Deaton reminded him that was his livelihood, and one of them would be going to work today. Who that was depended on Scott.

Five minutes later, he left the loft, slamming the sliding door hard behind him.

They both waited until they heard his bike start and Scott peel off before Derek sank into the chair at the table and covered his face with his clean hand, the other sticky with meat juices.

He felt like he was slowly falling apart. It had been a struggle keeping calm in front of everyone, but he was alone with Deaton now, and if he wanted to have a mental breakdown, he felt like Deaton was the only person he was okay doing that in front of.

After all, Deaton was the only one who _truly_  understood how royally fucked they were.

“Do we know?” Derek asked softly, face still in his hand. “Do we know how long he’s been a wolf?”

“It’s difficult to say,” Deaton admitted, and Derek heard him moving forward, closer to Stiles. “You found him in the Preserve, so I would like to think this is encouraging. He remembered his home, to an extent.”

That was true. Derek had to focus on the positives rather than the negatives. A difficult feat for someone whose entire life was full of negatives, but he really couldn’t lose Stiles. Not like this. He wouldn’t come back from this, and neither would the sheriff.

Fuck, neither would _Scott_.

Losing Stiles once had destroyed them all. Losing him like _this_  would be the end of them.

Letting out a slow breath, Derek rubbed his hand down his face while sliding it off, then turned back to Stiles. He’d moved to his little nest once more, curling up onto it and still looking unhappy with how uncomfortable it was.

Without thinking on it too much, Derek stood and headed upstairs, Deaton remaining where he was, watching Stiles. Derek pulled open one of his cupboards and dug through it for a spare blanket, then headed back downstairs with it. He moved over to where Stiles was and tossed it right onto him.

Stiles jerked up, covered by the blanket, and hastily clawed at it to get it off himself. He glared up at Derek, blue eyes flashing, then looking down at what he held. It didn’t take him long to shift around so the blanket was bunched up beneath him, curling into a ball again and shifting over a bit so he was in the sunlight. He kept his gaze locked on Derek, basically ignoring Deaton.

It made sense, Derek was the larger threat. He hoped Stiles stopped viewing him as one soon, though.

“We should begin,” Deaton said, moving to the table and taking a seat.

Derek kept his gaze on Stiles for a moment longer, then followed. He cleared the food off the table, bringing the garbage to the kitchen and putting the rest of the meat in the fridge. Washing his hands, he went back to the table and sat, pulling the coffee closer as well as the pastries he’d bought and taking one of the offered books from Deaton.

Flipping it open, he let out a slow breath, cast one last glance over his shoulder at Stiles, and began to read.

* * *

The sheriff texted or called Derek almost hourly. It would’ve been annoying if Derek didn’t completely understand his desperation. He still hadn’t told him about how this could be permanent, but he didn’t know _how_  to do that. So he just gave him updates as the day progressed, and was kind of pleased when Stiles ate lunch without any complaints.

He definitely didn’t trust Derek, not yet, but he seemed to understand that he was being taken care of. He probably also liked his chances better with a Beta, because Derek already knew Stiles was extremely strong. Probably not stronger than him, but Stiles had an advantage Derek didn’t.

Stiles could hurt Derek without remorse. Derek wouldn’t lay a finger on Stiles.

It was nearing mid-afternoon when Scott showed up. Deaton seemed unhappy to have the clinic closed early, but Scott insisted there were no more appointments, and he’d left a sign on the door that they could call his cell or Deaton’s for emergencies. While still displeased, Deaton handed over a book and Scott sat down on the floor in front of Stiles to read.

Stiles didn’t appreciate that, growling low in his throat like an angry motor non-stop. Derek ended up snapping at Scott to move, but he was a stubborn asshole and stayed put, Stiles’ growling continuing.

The sheriff arrived close to dinner time, and he’d been kind enough to bring takeout. Derek was starving, and he was sure Deaton was, as well, since he hadn’t seen the man eat once since his arrival.

They were dividing the food into equal portions, the sheriff having grabbed an extra plate since Parrish was coming over in a few minutes, when Deaton’s phone rang. He checked the display, arched an eyebrow, then answered it.

“Hello Lydia. It’s been a long time.”

 _“Where is he?”_ she asked, her voice carrying easily to the Werewolves in the room.

“At the loft. We were just—” The line clicked and Deaton pulled the phone away from his ear, looking a little amused.

Derek didn’t think anything about this situation was something to be _amused_  about, but that was Deaton in a nutshell. Making sense since never.

The sheriff ate while standing up, watching Stiles, who was sniffing curiously in their direction. He was still grumbling about Scott, having scooted a bit further away from him inside his circle, but he didn’t seem to mind anyone else. Derek was strongly of the opinion that Stiles was just angry about the forced submission and Scott wasn’t helping his case by sticking so close to him.

They all turned when the door at the bottom of the stairs banged open, hurried footsteps moving up the stairs. Within seconds, the loft door slid open and Lydia was standing there, her eyes darting quickly across everyone’s face before settling on Stiles.

Derek knew the moment she realized he wasn’t human anymore, because her face fell and he heard her heart stutter in her chest.

Stiles, for his part, just glared at her, like she’d interrupted his nap time, but otherwise didn’t seem concerned by her presence.

She looked good, Derek had to admit. Her hair was still its rich red colour, falling in perfect curls around her face. Her make-up was perfect, not a single indication of her having been on a plane until moments ago. She was dressed to the nines, looking ready to go out to a party as opposed to rushing home to see an old friend.

Derek knew it wasn’t that. He knew that when Scott had texted the group chat, Lydia had likely already been up and going about her day. Based on how she looked, she’d probably gotten right into a car and raced for the airport. He didn’t even know if she’d brought anything home with her.

“Sheriff,” she said politely, eyes still on Stiles. “Deaton.”

“Hello Lydia,” Deaton said again, the sheriff nodding in greeting.

Lydia didn’t acknowledge Scott, but she at least spared a glance for Derek, the two of them locking eyes for a moment before she looked back at Stiles. That was more than Derek had been expecting, if he was honest.

The Pack hadn’t split on good terms, it would take a while for them to reacclimate to each other’s presence.

She moved further into the loft, right up to the mountain ash circle, and bent down. It looked like she was going to cry, but Derek could see her trying to hold it together. She managed a watery smile before she spoke again.

“Hi Stiles.”

“He can’t understand you,” Scott said softly from his own spot at the edge of the circle. “He’s feral.”

“What does that mean?” Lydia asked, turning to Deaton, as if he were the one to have spoken and not Scott.

“Stiles’ wolf is currently in control. It’s forced the human side of him back.”

“How do we get the human side to the front again?” she asked.

Derek held up the book he had open in front of him in answer and Lydia pursed her lips before turning back to Stiles. She was raking her eyes over every inch of him while he watched her with interest. He unfolded from his nest and inched a little closer, scenting the air as if she smelled familiar. He jerked back when he accidentally hit the barrier and scowled, baring his teeth. Lydia didn’t even flinch.

“Where was he?” she asked softly, eyes on his scarred skin. “Where did you find him?”

“Derek found him in the woods,” Scott said, which had Lydia turn to him sharply for the first time since her arrival, narrowing her eyes angrily.

“I thought you said you _both_  found him,” she accused.

Scott frowned, clearly not liking her tone. “Well yeah, we did, but it was Derek wh—”

“There’s no ‘well yeah,’ Scott,” Lydia snapped, cutting him off. “ _Who_  found him? Was it you, or Derek, or both of you together?”

Scott seemed not to know what the big deal was. Derek didn’t really, either, but he wasn’t willing to piss Lydia off. She seemed angry enough, and so far, she didn’t _hate_  Derek, so he was fine leaving the anger she felt aimed towards Scott.

“If you want to be literal, then I guess Derek’s the one who found him,” Scott said coldly.

“Then why did you say ‘ _we_ ’ when you texted the Pack?” she demanded, a hard edge in her tone. She turned to glare at Derek, now. So much for staying on her good side. “Why didn’t you correct him?”

Derek shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest. “I didn’t think it was important. Stiles was found. Does it matter who found him?”

“Yes,” Lydia said, getting to her feet and flipping some perfect curls over her shoulder. “It does. Because here I thought Scott was actually a _decent_  Alpha, for once.”

“Oh, and Derek is better than me because he’s the one who _found_  Stiles?” Scott snapped angrily, getting to his feet and storming around the circle so he was closer to her.

Stiles was beginning to growl again, low and guttural, something threatening leaking through in the sound of it.

“You had _two months_ to find him, Scott. And you didn’t,” Lydia accused. “If we’d called Derek like _all of us_ suggested in those first few weeks, maybe we’d have found him sooner. But no, you were _determined_  to do this on your own! Because he was _your_  best friend.” She moved to stab him in the chest with one angry finger. “Because clearly, _your_  friendship with him mattered more than anything else. More than how much _I_ cared about him, or his _father_ , or _Malia_! Everything was always about _you_ , Scott, and your stupid ego!”

“I did my best!” Scott shouted, the room shaking with the Alpha tone slipping into his voice. Stiles’ growling got much, much louder. “I did everything I could to find him! Derek just got _lucky_!”

“Oh, is _that_  what we’re going with? Derek was _lucky_?” Lydia scoffed. “Right, Scott. Because Derek’s been nothing but _lucky_  his entire life. No way he’s just a better Werewolf than you, that would be absurd, wouldn’t it?”

Stiles let out a snarl when Scott pointed his finger in Lydia’s face.

Derek realized, with a start, that Stiles was feeding off the negative energy in the room. Before, he’d thought the growling was about him not liking Scott, but it occurred to him that every time Stiles got _really_  loud, it was when there was animosity. Him and Scott back at the cave, him and Scott last night, him and Scott this afternoon, and now Scott and Lydia. The Pack was fractured and unstable, and it was affecting Stiles.

Before he could open his mouth to tell them to stop, the sheriff was on his feet, forcibly pushing the two of them apart. He was much rougher with Scott than with Lydia, having placed one hand in the center of his chest and shoving him back, while all he did to Lydia was place a hand on her shoulder to keep her in place.

“That’s enough,” he snapped. “Both of you. It’s enough of a problem with Scott and Derek, I’m not going to stand around and watch everyone in the Pack fight with each other. This is about Stiles, so anyone who doesn’t care about helping him can leave and I’ll do this myself. I don’t have time to babysit a bunch of children.” The sheriff pointed over at Derek, eyes on Scott when he spoke. “Derek found Stiles. I knew if anyone would ever find my son, it would be him.”

Scott winced at that, hurt flashing across his features, but he said nothing.

“Derek found him, so Derek’s in charge. Anyone who has a problem with that knows where the door is. If you want to stay, you _get along_. I won’t tolerate this bullshit anymore. Are we clear?”

He looked back at Lydia briefly, then turned to Scott once more.

Scott hunched his shoulders, shuffling his feet, trying to go for his puppy eyes but didn’t quite succeed. He nodded his understanding, Lydia letting out a clipped, “Clear.”

“Good,” the sheriff grunted. “Lydia, there’s some food left if you’re hungry. Grab a book and let’s get to work.”

Derek stood from the chair and offered it to Lydia. She took it with a nod of thanks, but didn’t say anything. She pulled a book over and flipped it open while Derek moved around the loft to the other side, sitting down on the stairs with his plate on his lap and a book in his hands.

Parrish showed up a few minutes later, he and Lydia greeting one another much more amicably than she had anyone else in the room. Derek would’ve figured it was because she liked Parrish the best, but he realized she was making an effort when her eyes kept skirting to the sheriff.

He didn’t dwell on it, eyes re-reading the same sentence over and over again, feeling anxiety begin to rise once more. Lydia, like the sheriff, didn’t know this might be permanent. He was going to have to tell them eventually. They were going to need to brace themselves for the possibility that Stiles was gone, and he wasn’t coming back.

It was well past midnight by the time anything else happened, and Derek hadn’t turned a page in hours, too focussed on his panic to pay attention to anything else. But he started when there was the sound of a car speeding towards the loft, slamming on the brakes just outside. A car door slammed and then someone threw themselves through the door at the bottom of the stairs.

They all looked at the door, still open from Lydia’s arrival, and Malia exploded into the loft, making a beeline for Stiles.

Her fast approach was not appreciated, and Stiles roared loudly, flying in her direction to attack, to protect himself, but he slammed into the barrier and skidded backwards, snapping his teeth angrily.

Malia didn’t seem to care. She moved right up to the barrier and placed both hands on it, forehead resting against it as well and eyes bleeding blue, locked on Stiles. He growled and paced on the other side of the barrier, and Malia just stared at him, inhaling deeply, drinking him in.

“Hello Malia,” Deaton said politely, but she ignored him, eyes locked on Stiles, claws extending and scratching slowly down the barrier separating them.

“He’s alive,” she said, mostly to herself. “He’s alive.”

He saw Scott straighten abruptly out of his peripheral and cast a glance at him. He already knew where Scott’s mind was going, even before he turned to look at him, feeling the Alpha burning holes in his skull with his gaze.

But Scott didn’t understand. He didn’t know. Derek barely tolerated him, he didn’t want to have to explain this to Scott, but he didn’t have a choice.

Scott’s mind had evidently gone to Malia being feral. She had been, once upon a time. Stuck in the body of a coyote while being a Were. But it was different with her, something Derek consistently reminded Scott of, despite how much the idiot didn’t _listen_.

Born and bitten. Born and _bitten_. They weren’t the same. There were differences. So many differences. Malia, like Derek, was a _born_  Were. She’d been feral, yes, but she could come back from that no matter how long she was in her animal form. She could come back from it because with born Weres, they weren’t separated inside their minds. Animal and human were intertwined, one and the same. While it was possible to lose oneself in the animal, like Malia had done, the human was always there, hovering near the surface, ready to come back with the right push. It didn’t matter how many years Malia had been a coyote, the fact of the matter was, she was a born Were, and she could always be called back.

Bitten wolves couldn’t. Bitten wolves were either human or animal. Once the animal took over, that was it. If the human side didn’t come back fast enough, it never _would_.

Scott jerked his head towards the stairs leading up to the second floor, moving quickly in Derek’s direction. Derek didn’t want to have this conversation in front of the sheriff, so he obediently stood and made his way up to the second level with his plate and the book. Scott followed, and the sound of another chair scraping meant Lydia was also heading after them.

Setting his plate and book down on his dresser, Derek turned back to the stairs and crossed his arms, waiting for Scott to meet him so they could get this over with.

Once he was at the landing, he was already speaking.

“I brought Malia back. I brought her back by forcing her to submit to me, to an Alpha. If it worked with her, when she was a coyote for _years_ , it has to work with him.” He frowned, continuing before Derek could cut in, Lydia having reached the top of the stairs by then and looking between them. “But we _tried_  that with Stiles, and all it did was piss him off. So what did we do wrong?”

“What are you talking about?” Lydia demanded, frustrated and clearly displeased with joining a conversation she didn’t fully understand.

“Feral Werewolves don’t come back,” Derek explained shortly, crossing his arms and letting out a soft sigh. “If a Werewolf is feral for an extended period of time, there’s no coming back from that.”

“But you brought Malia back,” Lydia said to Scott before Derek could explain why it _wouldn’t work_. “You tried the same thing with Stiles, and it didn’t work?”

“No, it didn’t,” Scott said miserably. “What if I tried again?”

“It won’t work,” Derek cut in before the two of them could continue to discuss this and ignore his wealth of knowledge on the subject.

“And why not?” Scott snapped at him, narrowing his eyes. “Because I’m not _good_  enough?”

“Because he is not _born_ ,” Derek shot back, feeling his gums itch. God, how he hated Scott. “You keep acting like I’m implying born Weres are better than bitten ones, but I’m _not_. I am providing you with _facts_. Born Weres are both the animal _and_  the human. It doesn’t matter that Malia was a coyote for years, her human side cannot disappear into the recesses of her mind because it is as much a part of her as her animal side. Stiles is _different_. He was bitten. His wolf side and his human side are mutually exclusive. It’s possible for one to exist without the other, which is why anything we try that worked on a born wolf will _not_  have the same effect on a bitten one.”

“So what, we sit here and do nothing?” Scott demanded.

Derek motioned the book he’d set down. “We _are_  doing something!”

“Not good enough.” Scott turned to Lydia. “I’ll try again.”

“He’ll hate you,” Derek snapped.

“He already hates me,” Scott snarled back, Derek’s shoulders tensing and his eyes flashing instinctively. “He growls whenever I’m anywhere near him.”

“Because you’re pushing your Alphaness in his _face_ ,” Derek insisted sharply. “I told you that earlier.”

“Enough,” Lydia snapped, turning to Scott. “Do you remember exactly what you did with Malia? Maybe you did something different and that’s why it worked for her and not Stiles.”

Derek wanted to be pissed at Lydia for taking Scott’s side, but he understood. She was desperate. They were _all_  desperate. But this wasn’t going to work, and they were wasting time pretending it might. Derek wanted to get back to his book.

“Maybe?” Scott rubbed the back of his head, letting out a slow breath. “I can try. I can channel it. I want Stiles back more than anything, I can make it work.”

Derek didn’t argue with them again. He knew it wouldn’t work, but they would just have to see that for themselves. Even if forcing submission was the way to go, Derek knew it wasn’t that simple. There was something Stiles _needed_  to come back, and he’d never been one to submit to anyone. When a wolf got in his face back when he was human, he just stood his ground. Now that he was a Werewolf, Derek didn’t understand why Scott thought he’d be any different.

He wouldn’t be. Stiles didn’t submit. He _wouldn’t_  submit. Not entirely. Not more than he had back in the cave, and even then it had barely been enough. He’d stopped, and he’d sort of bared his throat, but he’d done so reluctantly, and it was clear it wasn’t a true submission. It was just an acknowledgement that Scott was an Alpha, nothing more.

Scott turned and headed back downstairs without another word. Lydia followed him immediately, but Derek didn’t. He just stayed on the second level, clenching his hands tightly around his arms where they were still crossed, and waited.

Every hair on his body rose on end and he felt his eyes flash at the howl from downstairs. His gums ached, wanting to shift, and he felt himself turning his head slightly, as if he was going to bare his throat to an unseen Alpha. He managed to resist the urge, though he did hear Malia let out a soft whine from downstairs.

There was silence for only a second, and then a roar of fury that sounded very aggressive. Derek had known it wouldn’t work. Stiles had followed Scott everywhere, but even their relationship had fractured at some point. During Derek’s first absence, he knew there had been a problem between the pair. Something that had shifted their relationship. They were still best friends, they still cared about each other, but there was more hesitation there than there had been before. There was a shift, and Derek had seen it when he’d first come back, when Stiles had helped him while an intern with the FBI. He’d seen the way their dynamic had shifted.

Stiles followed Scott, but he didn’t trust him.

Scott was trying to force Stiles to fully submit, but it wasn’t going to happen. This wasn’t the way to get him back, Derek knew it wasn’t. He just didn’t know what to _do_.

Pulling his phone out, he opened his text messages, gritting his teeth while sending a message out.

 **[Derek]**  
How long before you’re back?

He only had to wait half a minute before he got a response.

 **[Peter]**  
I’m touched you miss me so much.  
**[Peter]**  
I’m coming as fast as I can.  
**[Peter]**  
Do try not to lose him before I get there.

 **[Derek]**  
How LONG, Peter?

 **[Peter]**  
Two days at the most.

Derek shoved his phone into his pocket.

Two days might as well be two more fucking _years_ , at this point.

Derek didn’t know if they had two days.

* * *

When Derek woke up in the middle of the night, after barely having gotten to sleep given how stressed he was, it took him a few seconds to understand why. His eyes opened, and he felt itchy. Like someone was touching him all over with something prickly. His brain felt sluggish and strange, and he had the feeling like he needed to _be_  somewhere, but he couldn’t figure out where.

Sitting up and trying to get rid of the discomfort, his eyes snapped to the stairs when he heard a loud thud and then a roar that shook the whole building.

Derek was on his feet and racing to the stairs in half a second, scrambling down them so fast he almost just _fell_  down them. When he reached the bottom, he saw Stiles at the edge of the barrier, banging against it and clawing to get out, roaring in the direction of the door. Derek’s eyes shot to it, but it was closed and locked, like it had been since Stiles had come back into his life.

“Stiles!” He raced towards him, moving to the other side of the circle so he was between Stiles and the door. “Stiles, it’s okay! It’s all right!”

Stiles was looking through him at the door. Drool was dribbling down his chin, his teeth were bared, and his eyes were so blue they almost hurt to look at. He just roared again, banging so hard against the barrier that it threatened to give way. Derek wouldn’t have thought that possible if not for the fact that Scott had done it once, and Stiles was far more impressive than him. If anyone could push through a barrier by sheer force of will alone, it would be Stiles.

“Stiles!” Derek moved right up to the barrier, placing his hands on it right where Stiles himself was. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Calm down. Breathe, just breathe. I’m right here. You’re okay, I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Stiles didn’t look like he could hear him, he just kept pounding at the mountain ash wall, trying to get out, the sounds escaping him becoming desperate and pained. Derek’s skin crawled and his ears rang, and he felt like he needed to _be_  somewhere, but that was impossible because there was nowhere else in the world he should be other than here, with Stiles.

“Look at me!” Derek shouted, shifting into his Beta form and growling loudly. “Stiles, look at me!”

Derek didn’t know if it was the transformation, or the guttural sound of his voice, but Stiles’ gaze finally snapped to him and Derek leaned forward.

“You’re okay. Stiles, I’m right here. I am _right here_. And I won’t let anyone touch you again. You’re safe. I promise, with me, you’re always safe. I’ve got you.”

Stiles was breathing hard, whining low in his throat, but he’d stopped clawing and slamming against the barrier, so Derek took that as a win.

“That’s it.” Derek let his features return to normal, one hand brushing lightly down the barrier, wishing more than anything that he could _touch_  Stiles right now. “That’s it, you’re okay. It was just a nightmare. You’re okay here, I won’t let anyone touch you. Not ever again.”

Stiles whined in his throat again and pressed harder into the barrier, eyes locked on Derek, like he wanted to push right through it. He slid to the ground, still pressed up against it, curling into a little ball.

Derek slowly shifted onto his knees, hand still pressed against the barrier, right where Stiles’ face was resting. He could almost pretend he felt his skin through the magic keeping them apart. He’d never so badly in his life wished he was a human before.

“You’re okay, Stiles. I’m going to fix this. You’re going to be okay, I’ll get you back. I won’t give up on you, just let me help you.”

Stiles said nothing, as usual, and closed his eyes, still breathing hard, and nuzzling against the barrier, almost as if _he_  could feel Derek’s hand touching him.

Derek stayed kneeling where he was for a long while, watching Stiles calm down until he finally fell asleep again. Once he was sure the other Werewolf was unconscious, Derek stood silently and turned to look at the door, frowning slightly. The itchy feeling he’d woken up to was gone, but he wasn’t stupid enough to think it wasn’t a coincidence.

He woke up feeling itchy and uncomfortable, and suddenly Stiles was clawing to get out?

Something was going on, Derek just didn’t know what it was yet.

* * *

By the time morning rolled around, the last of the Pack were back. Liam showed up at the loft a little after dawn and Mason arrived around noon. Derek went about explaining everything that he could, keeping out the permanence of the situation until after the sheriff had departed for sleep back at the house, having dropped in after work.

Scott had shown up briefly as well, but was also chased out by Deaton once more, and Derek was left facing the others and explaining that they might not be able to get Stiles back.

Predictably, Malia piped in that it had worked for her, but she didn’t remember much about her time being feral, and she didn’t understand why it had worked for her. Derek was once again forced to explain there was a difference between born and bitten Weres, a conversation he was getting frustrated having to repeat.

People always looked at him like he was implying born Weres were better, but it wasn’t about who was better. It was about actual fact, and that fact in this moment was that Malia was never truly lost. She would always have come back one way or another, but Stiles wasn’t like her. He was bitten, and if the human part of what made Stiles _Stiles_  was gone, there was no getting it back, no matter how much Scott roared at him to submit.

Eventually, they all just grabbed books and went about reading, none of them willing to leave, wanting to be close to Stiles. The only time Derek seemed able to kick people out was at night, and even then, he only half-succeeded with the sheriff.

Stiles didn’t like all the attention, and he was downright hostile when Scott returned at the end of the day, but Derek realized Stiles calmed down a lot whenever specific people were there.

He didn’t seem to mind Derek at _all_. Probably because he was the one who fed him and they’d somewhat bonded the night before, but he seemed okay with Derek.

When Derek woke up the following morning alone in the loft and went downstairs to shower, Stiles didn’t even twitch in his nest. He just lay there while Derek went about his day, and only looked up when he approached with his breakfast. He’d made eggs, just on a whim, and had managed to inch the plate over the line without affecting the barrier.

Stiles had eaten it with his hands, devouring the eggs, toast and bacon. It was real food, which was encouraging, but Derek didn’t know if he was eating it because it tasted good and familiar, or if he was doing it because he recognized that it was food and he needed it.

Stiles also appeared fine with the sheriff. More curious than anything, really. He often stared at him when the sheriff was around, reading through books or eating meals while staring right back.

And Deaton. He was fine with Deaton, too.

Everyone else was touch and go. He seemed to associate Lydia with Scott, and was somewhat angry whenever she was around, though nowhere near as aggressive as he was towards Scott. Malia he seemed not to trust, likely because of her fast approach, but he only grumbled in her presence and nothing more. Liam and Mason he didn’t seem to have an opinion on yet. He didn’t growl when they were around, but he also didn’t take his eyes off them, as if anticipating an attack.

Peter showed up two days later, just like he’d said. The Pack was all together at the loft, things tense and uncomfortable because of how long they’d been apart and the fact that most of them hated one another. But they made it work. For Stiles. Because he needed them. So they managed, somehow.

When Peter walked into the room, everyone tensed. He didn’t even acknowledge any of them, he just tilted his head curiously, watching Stiles, and moved closer to him, crouching right in front of him and giving him a slow once-over.

“I’ve always wanted to see him without clothes on. Can’t say I’m thrilled with the view, in this case.” The harshness in his tone suggested he was pissed at how injured he clearly was. Nevermind the fact that he was feral, they all knew Werewolves didn’t scar, so whatever had happened to him had happened _before_  he turned into a Werewolf.

Derek stood, moving behind Peter. Stiles’ gaze shifted from Peter to Derek, then back to Peter. It was weird seeing Stiles look at Peter without his usual disdain on his face. Sure, Stiles tolerated the older man, but it wasn’t like they were friends.

Peter wasn’t really friends with anyone. He just tolerated some of them more than others.

Stiles was his favourite.

“Are we too late?” Derek asked quietly, almost afraid of the answer. “Can we get him back?”

“You can always get them back,” Peter said, eying Stiles with interest, now. It occurred to Derek that once upon a time, Peter had wanted Stiles as his Beta. He was probably thrilled to have someone as talented and amazing as Stiles as a Werewolf, now.

Shit, for all Derek knew, Peter might try and fucking _steal_  him. Good thing the mountain ash kept him out as much as the rest of them.

“That’s not true,” Derek insisted. “Mom always had to put ferals down. Even Deaton said it couldn’t be done.”

“Deaton knows nothing,” Peter said with an exasperated sigh. “His understanding of our kind comes from books and observation. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be feral, _truly_  feral.” He hummed, cocking his head, eyes still on Stiles. “I was almost feral, once. Your mother brought me back from that brink. It was long before you were even a thought,” he said, waving one hand towards Derek. “We were young. Hunters were cruel, and they still are.”

“You’re a born Were,” Derek reminded him.

“True, but irrelevant. There are ways to bring ferals back, they’re just less savoury and your mother was nothing if not a purist. Tell me, do we know who hurt him?” Peter asked, jumping topics faster than Derek could follow.

“No,” he said through gritted teeth once he’d caught back up. “I’m more concerned with getting him back, if we even can.”

“We can, we just need to figure out what it is he wants.”

Derek frowned, trying to figure out what Peter’s game was. He didn’t trust him, and he hated having to rely on him, but Peter and his mother had grown up together. Peter knew what it was like having an Alpha around who actually knew what they were doing.

“Mom always put ferals down,” he argued. “She said that with the bitten ones, once they’re past a certain point, there’s no saving them.”

Peter finally turned then, arching an eyebrow at him. “Your mother did the best she could without resorting to... _alternate_  methods. Ones that are frowned upon by our kind. But,” Peter turned back to Stiles, “this is Stiles. I don’t imagine even Mr. Goody-two-shoes over there will refuse.” He motioned absently towards Scott.

Derek felt hope rising in his chest and throttled it violently. Peter was going to get his hopes up, get all their hopes up, and then fail them. He’d never managed to succeed in anything before, why should this time be any different?

Still, Derek found himself asking, “How?”

Peter stood, still watching Stiles while he spoke. “It’s possible to bring bittens back. It’s not as easy as it is with born Weres, but it can be done with knowledge of the feral Were and some forms of magic.”

Derek felt his skin tingle, and before he could even say anything, Scott was on his feet.

“No. Absolutely not.”

Peter continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “In order for the magic to work, you just need to find that one thing that the human wants more than the wolf does. The success rate is rare, even with the magic reenforcing it.” He pointed at Stiles, turning to look at Derek. “If there is ever a rarity, it’s him. If anyone can come back, it’s him.”

It was a show of support from the least expected party, and Derek wasn’t sure how to take it. He wanted to believe Peter. Wanted to believe Stiles could come back, that it could be that easy, but Peter himself had admitted it was rare. That it didn’t happen often, not to mention magic was involved. _Hoping_  Stiles could come back wasn’t the same as it being _possible_.

“No,” Scott said again, and Derek felt inclined to agree. “The last time Stiles was involved with anything magical, he was possessed. We’re not doing that to him again.”

“That was magic with a price,” Peter said, still watching Derek and ignoring Scott as much as he was able to. “This magic doesn’t have a price.”

“All magic has a price,” Derek insisted.

“This one doesn’t. It’s magic that feeds off the will of others. We just need to figure out what it is Stiles wants, and once we have it, the spell works. That’s it.” Peter shook his head. “No catch, no trick, just Stiles coming back.”

No one spoke for a long while, each of them turning over his words. Derek, like Scott, didn’t like it. Magic was dangerous, it was unpredictable. It was pricey, and Stiles had already paid the price a hundred times over. He’d been possessed, and in that time he’d murdered countless people, including Allison, and hurt dozens more.

But it was Stiles. If they didn’t try, if they didn’t at least _try_...

“I wanted guidance,” Malia said softly, breaking the silence, and making both Peter and Derek turn to her. She was watching Stiles, who was still staring up at Peter. “I wanted to belong to a Pack. Scott made me submit, he gave me an Alpha. He gave me a Pack. It was what I wanted.”

Peter inclined his head, turning to smile at Derek, as if pleased. “So now the question is: what does _Stiles_  want?”

They all turned to glance at him, but Stiles didn’t offer any advice. He just sat in his nest staring back at them until he got bored of the game and settled more comfortably, closing his eyes and snoozing.

It wasn’t encouraging.

“I would’ve thought his father would be the catalyst,” Lydia said softly.

“Stiles’ relationship with his father is complicated,” Derek offered.

“How would you know?” Scott asked bitingly.

“Because I pay attention,” Derek returned, just as harshly.

Before they could begin another fight, the door opened once more and the sheriff walked in. He seemed to realize he’d interrupted what would’ve undoubtedly been a stellar argument and he gave them all a disapproving look. Then his eyes shifted to Peter.

“Peter. Didn’t realize you were back.”

“For my favourite human? Anything.” Peter turned back to Stiles, considering him. “Though I suppose he’s no longer human, is he? Though that is of little consequence to me.”

“I’ll bet,” the sheriff said acidly, walking further into the room. “Chris Argent called. Wants to talk to you.”

Scott started to move when John held one hand up. “Not you. You.” He pointed at Derek.

The animosity radiating from Scott did not go unnoticed but Derek obediently moved to the door and exited the loft. The sheriff followed, though it was clear he didn’t want to. Probably wanted to spend more time with his son, but at this point, it was turning into a problem because Derek was going to have to tell him they might not get him back.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Derek climbed into the cruiser and the sheriff drove them to Chris’ house. They parked on the curb and Derek climbed out, John following. It had been a long time since Derek had spoken to Chris Argent, and he didn’t like his chances right now. Whenever Chris was involved, it was always unpleasant.

They climbed the porch steps, Derek frowning at a familiar scent, but he didn’t place it until after he’d rung the bell and the door opened.

“Isaac,” he said, startled at the sight of him. He hadn’t seen Isaac Lahey in years. Not since Chris’ daughter had died and Isaac had decided he couldn’t be in Beacon Hills anymore.

“Hey Derek,” he said uncomfortably, shifting his weight. “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah.” He gave him a once-over. “You look good.”

“Thanks.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I heard about Stiles,” he said softly. “About how he’s back. Kind of.”

“How?” Derek frowned.

“I told Chris,” the sheriff said. “Chris told Isaac.”

Isaac moved aside and motioned them in. They both entered the house, heading for the living room while Isaac disappeared upstairs. He returned a few moments later with Chris, who looked extremely tense and unhappy. Derek wondered if it was about him, but the last time they’d spoken, they’d been civil. Chris was instrumental in helping him find the Hunters who’d been passing through town three years ago.

“We have a problem,” he said seriously, taking a seat across from them on the couch. Isaac just leaned back against the wall by the door, looking uncomfortable but alert.

“When don’t we?” the sheriff asked gruffly, but Chris ignored him, speaking to Derek, eyes locked on him.

“Hunters are coming.”

“Not anything we haven’t dealt with before,” Derek reminded him uncertainly, unsure of why this time was different.

And why he was there instead of Scott.

Chris shook his head. “They’re coming for Stiles.”

Derek tensed instantly, feeling his hackles rise, possession and protectiveness slamming into him. “Because he’s feral. They want to put him down.”

Chris’ smile was humourless. “They say they own him.”

These words were met with a long, tense silence. Finally, it was John who broke it.

“He’s my son,” the sheriff said darkly. “Nobody owns him. If anyone _does_  own him, it would be _me_  as his _father_.”

“They don’t see it that way,” Chris said, shaking his head. “They bought him, he belongs to them.”

“We’ll buy him back,” Derek snarled. “They’re not getting him.”

“They’re going to try.” Chris sighed, rubbing his face with both hands. “If the rest of the Pack were here, we might be able to hold them off, but with only a few of us, it’s—”

“The rest of the Pack _is_  here,” Derek cut him off.

Chris paused, watching him for a long moment. Derek grunted but explained that everyone had come back, Peter included. And on top of that, they had an extra in Isaac, which was even better.

“They’ve agreed to meet with me at the town border before entering,” Chris explained. “I thought we might have problems with our numbers, but if the Pack is back, we can meet them there. Hold them off.”

“How long do we have?”

“A few hours, maybe less.”

Derek nodded and stood. “I’ll let the Pack know. We’ll make preparations.”

Chris nodded, eying him with interest. It looked like he was seeing Derek in a new light, as if he remembered what he’d been like as an Alpha, and was feeling that same energy again. Derek ignored it, because he wasn’t an Alpha anymore. Hadn’t been for a long time, and he had no interest. Scott could have that, all Derek cared about was Stiles.

He and the sheriff left and when Derek got back to the loft, he explained the situation to the others. There were a lot of questions and angry demands, people talking over each other, but Stiles’ angry grumblings forced them to calm down. Derek found it somewhat funny that Stiles had always been the one to keep everyone together, and even now, as a feral Werewolf, he was somehow still managing to do so.

They came up with a gameplan, more of less. They needed their strongest out in the field, but Chris had been particularly adamant that the Pack as a whole needed to show up, as many as they could get, to show the Hunters Stiles was not someone they could just come and claim as they pleased.

Deaton ended up volunteering to stay behind with Stiles, and while Derek _hated_  it, they all agreed it was best. He could break the mountain ash line if something went wrong, and they really wanted their strongest fighters at the meeting.

Chris called when the Hunters were half an hour out and the Pack all got into their cars to meet them at the edge of the town border. Derek couldn’t help the warmth in his chest when he parked and climbed out, seeing the rest of them emerge from their vehicles. Their Pack had splintered and fallen apart after Stiles had disappeared, but now? They were back together. They were one unit again, albeit grudgingly. Even Isaac, who grinned when Scott shouted his name, the two of them hugging and speaking to one another excitedly. Derek watched them while Lydia moved up beside him, the two of them silent for a long while.

“What are we going to do if he doesn’t come back?” Lydia asked softly, voicing words Derek thought about every waking moment of his day.

“We’ll make him come back,” Derek promised. “Somehow. We’ll find a way.”

She said nothing else, and they waited. Eventually, a group of cars approached, all of them stiffening at the sight. Chris took the lead, waiting in the middle of the road for them to slow and eventually stop.

An old, grizzled-looking man exited the main vehicle. He looked a little worse for wear, with an eyepatch and scars along his face, but his shoulders were broad and he looked strong. For someone his age, he looked like he could bench press a truck, it was kind of intimidating in a human.

Two other men exited with him, heading towards Chris, and while the rest of the people in the other cars exited, none of them approached. They all had crossbows or rifles, clearly ready for a fight. Derek clenched his hands into fists and could hear Malia growling low in her throat, but nobody moved aside from the three men approaching Chris.

“Argent.”

“Valeris,” Chris responded. “Thank you for asking to meet instead of entering the territory.”

“We were being courteous to another Hunter.” His single eye raked across the other people present, curling his lip upwards in distaste. “I didn’t realize you ran with the wolves.”

“The Beacon Hills Pack is not like many others that exist,” Chris argued. “They are committed to protecting the people, as am I.”

“That is of little importance to us,” one of the other men said. “We’re here for our property.”

“Stiles,” Chris confirmed.

“Whatever you want to call him,” eyepatch said. “He belongs to us. We purchased him.”

“You the ones who hurt him, too?” Derek asked, before he could stop himself.

One of the hunters by the closest car flicked the safety off their weapon, clearly bracing for a fight, but eyepatch waved one hand over his shoulder, turning his single eye on Derek.

“No,” he said easily. “We didn’t lay a hand on him.” Not a lie, but not the whole truth, either. “But he _is_  ours, and we would very much like him returned to us. He makes a rather good pet. My grandson misses him terribly.”

Anger slammed through Derek so hard he almost let it explode out of his mouth in a roar, but thankfully the most human of them was the one to approach, looking just as furious as Derek felt.

“You are talking about my _son_ ,” the sheriff snarled in a rather impressive impression of a Werewolf. “He was _stolen_  from me, and I don’t care how much you paid, or what you think regarding who he belongs to, he is _mine_. You are _not_  taking him!”

“He isn’t your son anymore,” eyepatch said coolly. “He is a beast. And he belongs to _me_.”

The sheriff had his weapon drawn before anyone else could stop him. The Hunters all raised their own weapons and Derek crouched, readying himself for a fight. The other Weres around him did the same, and Derek reached over to grab Lydia’s arm, pulling her slowly behind him.

For a long moment, nobody moved, but Derek could see the sheriff’s hand trembling. With rage, or fear, or grief, he didn’t know. He just hoped it didn’t come down to a fight. They would win, but at a price.

“He is my _son_ ,” the sheriff repeated. “You will _not_  have him.”

“He was very, _very_  expensive,” eyepatch returned. “We will not leave empty-handed.”

“How much is he worth?” Peter piped up from somewhere to Derek’s left. He could see his uncle moving forward slowly in his peripheral, but didn’t turn to glance at him. “A feral Werewolf isn’t that expensive on the market these days. They’re almost boring. How much is he worth to you? A hundred thousand? Two hundred?”

“We paid four million,” eyepatch said.

Derek glanced at Peter at those words, but his uncle kept his expression closed off. Four million was _not_  normal for a Werewolf, feral or otherwise. Stiles was different somehow, but none of them had any idea _how_  different. Or _why_.

To his credit, Peter didn’t react, watching eyepatch as if for the lie. There wasn’t one, none of the Weres had heard blips in his heartrate. He truly had paid four million dollars for Stiles.

Eyepatch smirked, clearly amused by the reactions he was eliciting. “He is quite remarkable. Very obedient, a good little pet.”

Derek’s eyes shifted to the sheriff again, whose hand was shaking. He was going to pull the trigger, Derek could sense it. Chris evidently could, as well, because he shifted slightly so he was closer to the sheriff, likely to stop him if he needed to.

“We want him back,” one of the other men said. “He’s very important to us.”

“He’s more important to us,” Chris cut in before the sheriff’s temper could flare any more.

One of the women by the cars let out a frustrated growl. “If you do not return Romulus to us—”

“Hush,” eyepatch said harshly, turning to glare at the woman with his one eye. “That is enough.”

Derek frowned. Romulus. He recognized the name. Founder of Rome in Roman mythology, the descendant of Aeneas, hero of the Trojan war. He and his twin Remus were raised by wolves, which suggested to Derek that these people knew a lot more about Stiles than they were letting on.

But at least they had a starting point, now. Romulus. And this man, Valeris, which was clearly a last name given how he and Chris had greeted one another. They could figure out what had happened to Stiles.

Eyepatch swept his gaze along the crowd at his back, making it clear he wasn’t going to tolerate any further outbursts, then faced Peter once more.

“How much is he worth to you?” he asked Peter. “This feral wolf.”

“Quite a bit, actually.” Peter smiled jovially. “We can pay you for him. With interest, for your troubles, of course. Four million, plus a few hundred thousand.”

Derek didn’t want to know where Peter had gotten all that money from. Some things were better left unknown, but he didn’t have a doubt in his mind Peter had a couple hundred million stashed away somewhere.

“No deal,” one of the guys with eyepatch snarled. “He belongs to us.”

“Say that one more time,” the sheriff said darkly. “I dare you.”

“Stiles isn’t a thing you can own,” Derek snapped. “He’s a person, and he’s _ours_. He belonged to _us_  first. If you’re unwilling to take the offer, it’s because _you’re_  the ones who stole him.”

“He was human back then,” the sheriff said darkly. “I’m sure I can make kidnapping charges stick.”

“Are you threatening us?” the guy beside eyepatch demanded, sounding offended.

Eyepatch held one hand up to silence him, eying the sheriff with his one cool blue eye. It looked like he was trying to determine how serious John was. How much he truly _could_  make charges stick. Fighting ‘monsters’ in secret was one thing, but going up against an officer of the law regarding a human boy who’d been kidnapped three years ago was another entirely. It risked exposing them, and if there was one thing Derek knew about Hunters, it was that they liked keeping their side jobs a secret.

After a few moments, eyepatch’s phone went off. He ignored it at first, and then slowly reached into his pocket and pulled it out, reading over a message. Derek couldn’t tell based on his expression if it was good news or bad news. He had the poker face of a God.

He eventually put the phone back and looked at Peter, inclining his head once.

“Four million. With interest.”

“Dad,” one of the men hissed, but he silenced them once more.

Derek frowned. They weren’t interested in letting Stiles go, that much was clear. The question was _why_. He was just a feral Werewolf. Usually they were hunted for sport, but these people seemed to keep him around like a veritable pet. That didn’t make any sense to Derek, and he so desperately wanted to know _why_.

Only Stiles would be able to tell them, provided he remembered once he was sane again.

If he was _ever_  sane again.

“Four million with interest,” Peter agreed.

“Deal,” eyepatch finally said.

Peter smiled pleasantly and moved a few steps closer, pulling his phone out. The other Hunters tightened their ranks, aiming weapons at him, but he seemed unconcerned, he just spoke to eyepatch in low tones, the two of them confirming the payment. Derek still didn’t want to know how much money Peter had, or where he’d gotten it from. He also wasn’t sure he was happy _Peter_  was the one paying them off, because he was the kind of person who’d argue he now _owned_  Stiles.

Not that he could take him from this Pack, they’d tear him apart.

Once the transaction was complete, eyepatch checking his bank account on his own phone to make sure it went through, he looked up at them and smiled.

It was all teeth, and not at all friendly.

“Pleasure doing business with you.” He turned to his companions. “Let’s go.”

The two men with eyepatch shared a look, one of them turning to glare hatefully at Peter before a bark from their leader forced them both to turn and head back for their cars.

None of the Pack moved while they returned to their vehicles, and once the three were back inside, the others climbed into their own cars and they all turned and drove away. Nobody spoke until their taillights had disappeared into the distance.

“That was too easy,” Mason insisted quietly.

Derek was sure they all felt the same way. None of the Hunters were happy with eyepatch’s decision. And there was also the text he’d received, taking his eyes off an entire Pack to check his phone.

That didn’t bode well.

“It was _expensive_ , is what it was,” Peter grumbled, scowling at his phone. “Stiles is lucky he’s the only person in this pathetic Pack I care about.”

“Something isn’t sitting right with me,” Lydia muttered, clutching at her stomach with one hand. “I don’t feel well.”

Derek agreed. This wasn’t sitting well with any of them.

He pulled his phone out and called Deaton, putting it to his ear. He waited while it rang.

And rang.

And rang.

His blood ran cold when voicemail picked up.

Hanging up, he dialled back, turning to hurry for his car. It rang again, but just like before, nobody answered.

Derek felt like he was going to throw up.

“Get to the loft,” he ordered, racing for the Camaro. “Get to the loft _now_!”

He was in the car and peeling out of there before anyone else. The sheriff was the first person on his heels, sirens blaring while he and Parrish raced after him towards the loft.

They shouldn’t have left him alone with Deaton. They should’ve assumed there was more going on than they knew. The Hunters _had_  given up too easily. It was clear they didn’t want to, they _wanted_  Stiles back, but they’d taken money and left? With barely a fight? Something was wrong.

Derek slammed on the brakes at the base of the building, throwing open his door and feeling his stomach bottom out.

There were new scents near his building. Some he knew were human. Others weren’t.

Wolves. He could smell wolves. They had been here recently.

“Shit!” He bolted for the door, slamming through it hard enough to blow it off the hinges. He raced up the stairs, heart pounding while the sheriff and Parrish followed behind him. He ignored them, feeling like he was going to be sick.

Not again. Please, _God_ , not again!

He threw open the loft door in time to hear someone snap, “Yeah, yeah, _grr_  to you too, Stilinski.”

Derek stopped so abruptly that the sheriff quite literally slammed into him. Thankfully Parrish was there to save him from tumbling backwards down the stairs from rebounding off the Werewolf, but Derek didn’t pay them any attention. His eyes were on the Werewolf circling the outside of the mountain ash, eyes locked on Stiles.

He had to be hallucinating.

But after a moment, green eyes slowly rose and a smarmy smirk appeared on his haughty face. “Hale. It’s been a long time.”

“Jackson.” His eyes shot to the other man who was at the table with Deaton, helping him tend to a head wound. “Ethan.”

Jackson Whittemore and his boyfriend Ethan had been in England the last time Derek had checked. While Jackson had once been his Beta, they’d never really gotten along, and as far as he knew, Jackson _hated_  Stiles. To have him here, now, was extremely confusing and somewhat disorienting.

Scott crashed up the stairs after them all, pushing past Derek into the loft. He stopped as abruptly as Derek did, eying the two men.

“What are you doing here?” Scott asked. He sounded ruder than Derek felt was warranted.

“Heard Stilinski was back.”

“How?” Derek asked.

Jackson reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, tapping something before turning it to face them.

Derek stared, because he’d honestly had _no idea_ Jackson was in the group chat. He supposed it made sense, he’d probably joined it when he’d been a Beta, and once he’d moved, maybe he’d been re-invited by Lydia under his new number, and then never said anything. As the years passed and more people joined the Pack, his name and number had probably gotten buried in the contacts, and nobody knew he was there.

Jackson knew Stiles was missing. Everyone knew he was missing, because everyone had been contacted for help finding him. So when Jackson had seen the conversations happening in the group chat once more, he’d probably read them, realized Stiles was back, and... and apparently, gotten on a plane home.

Derek felt like he was in shock, but he shrugged it off quickly and moved towards Deaton at the table, where Ethan was still tending to his injury.

“What happened?”

“Hunters,” Ethan said easily, eyes on what he was doing while Deaton winced. “Four of them. Caught Deaton off-guard. They got Stiles all the way downstairs before we showed up and chased them off. It was a bitch getting him back up here.” He motioned his arm, where dried blood was clearly visible from healed wounds Stiles had inflicted. “Thank God she was with us, or else we wouldn’t have gotten him back into the mountain ash circle. She’s the one who managed to wake Deaton up.”

Derek frowned. “Thank God _who_  was with you?”

The way Scott’s heart thudded loudly in his chest had Derek whip around towards the kitchen. A beautiful Asian woman exited the room, carrying a bowl of water in one hand and some disinfectant in the other. She’d paused in the doorway, likely unsure of her welcome, but Scott spoke before she could retreat.

“Kira,” he said quietly. “You’re—you came back.”

Kira Yukimura shifted her weight uncomfortably, avoiding looking at Scott and instead focussing on Stiles. “I came back for Stiles,” she said softly. “No other reason than that. He’s my friend, and I care about him.”

She moved to the table to set her items down, offering Derek a quiet hello.

He knew she and Scott had parted on bad terms—really, everyone involved had parted on bad terms. But Derek also knew she _wasn’t_  in the group chat, having left it long before Stiles had gone missing. He could only assume Lydia had told her what was going on. Maybe she, Jackson and Ethan had bumped into one another by accident.

Maybe Ethan had reached out to her when they’d come back to the US. Derek didn’t know. All he knew was that it was really nice to see her.

“So,” Jackson said loudly, always wanting to be the center of attention and likely bored with the awkwardness, “what the hell’s wrong with Stilinski?”

“He’s feral,” Scott informed him. “I thought you read the messages in the group chat.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Jackson snapped, but Ethan was the one to still and glance over at Stiles.

Evidently he understood what that meant more than Jackson did.

He looked up at Derek then. “Are we too late?”

Derek didn’t have time to say anything because the sheriff was beside him instantly, eyes narrowed. “Too late for what?” He looked at Derek. “What does he mean by too late?”

Derek wished he could’ve been saved by the arrival of the rest of the Pack, but the sheriff didn’t let him slip away. The others all said their hellos, with Lydia and Jackson somewhat civil, though clearly uncomfortable. Everyone was trying to figure out how they fit together again, especially since some people were new to the Pack while others were part of the original group. Ethan, for his part, stayed out of it all and just kept helping Deaton dress his head wound, which hadn’t stopped bleeding.

The sheriff just stared at Derek hard enough to set him on fire and he let out a slow breath before finally admitting the truth to him.

“Like I implied when we first spoke about the Werewolf I found in the woods, feral Werewolves can’t always be saved,” he said quietly, practically hearing every muscle in the sheriff’s body tense. “If they’ve been feral for too long, their human side disappears, and it never comes back.”

The sheriff looked like he was going to be sick. Before he could open his mouth, before he could even decide what he wanted to say, Malia was beside Derek.

“I came back,” she insisted, despite knowing as well as Derek did that it was because she was a born Were, but anything to stop the man from panicking, he supposed. “Stiles is stubborn, he’ll come back, too. He’s going to come back, he has to. I won’t let him go out like this.”

The sheriff took a few deep breaths through his nose, then motioned between himself and Derek. “You and I are talking about this later.”

“Or not at all,” Peter said jovially, sliding the loft door shut and smiling at them all. “I’ve managed to procure the completed spell required to bring Stiles back. No need to thank me, all in a day’s work, you’re all very welcome for my services.”

“He’s still here?” Jackson asked with a snort, crossing his arms. “Haven’t you been killed yet?”

“Multiple times, in point of fact.” Peter smiled pleasantly at him, but continued across the room. He pulled something out of his pocket, unfolding it slowly and dropping it on the table in front of Deaton.

It looked like he’d ripped it out of a book, probably from one of his many vaults hidden around town. Derek wasn’t stupid enough to think he only had the one, Peter had far too much money to not have stashes of it everywhere.

Deaton eyed him critically, then pulled the page closer, looking it over with a frown while Ethan finished with the last of the medical tape around the gauze on his forehead. He shook his head once he’d finished reading the page.

“This has never been known to work. Talia has tried this. We cannot proceed without enough knowledge on the feral wolf.”

“I remember, I was there. But!” Peter grinned, poking at Derek’s cheek, for some stupid reason. Probably to annoy him. “Look at the Pack. They’ve all reconvened, every single one of them. For Stiles. They all came for him, and the Pack is complete.”

“Not all of them,” Chris said darkly.

Peter waved an impatient hand at him over his shoulder. “Yes, yes. Not everyone can come back to life like I can.”

Derek expected Chris to say something else, but it was Isaac who growled angrily. Nobody wanted to remember those they’d lost along the way, and even Derek was unhappy of the reminder.

Boyd. Erica. Allison.

“Point is,” Peter continued, ignoring everyone else while he motioned the page, “this will work. Because what is it Stiles has always wanted more than anything else?”

“His mother,” the sheriff snapped.

“Besides that,” Peter waved a hand impatiently.

“The unconditional love of his father,” Derek supplied.

Peter turned to give him an annoyed look. “Really, nephew? Surely _one_  of you will provide an answer that is something he once had and lost.”

They were all silent for a long moment before Lydia finally said, “Found family.”

Peter snapped his fingers before pointing at her, grinning widely. “Precisely! _Precisely_! Found family. And he had that. The Pack meant more to him than his own life, it’s why he fought for it again and again, even when he knew he might die in the process.” Peter turned to Scott. “Call your mother. Once she’s here, the Pack, his found family, will all be in this room, and we can attempt the spell.”

Scott and Derek shared an uncomfortable look, but they were desperate enough. They had nothing else, and Derek was positive Stiles was too far gone to save. If there was a chance, even the smallest, _slightest_  chance, they had to take it.

He nodded once, and was surprised Scott was taking his lead on this. He obediently pulled his phone out and moved towards the kitchen to call his mother. Kira moved away across the room so they didn’t have to be near one another.

Derek turned back to the page Deaton was inspecting. He didn’t trust Peter, not really, but he _did_  trust that Peter wanted Stiles back so he chose to believe this wasn’t a trick. Still, he had no idea what the spell was, so he leaned over to try and read through it. The sheriff did the same, the two of them crowding Deaton. Ethan got uncomfortable enough to get to his feet and ease his way out of the huddled group.

It was definitely magic. Some kind Derek didn’t recognize. It evidently meant something to Deaton though, because he looked unhappy. Derek himself didn’t know if he wanted anyone casting magic on Stiles. Things could go wrong, and what if they did something irreversible.

Then again...

Derek turned to glance at Stiles with a wince. His situation was already fairly irreversible as it was.

Scott returned moments later, advising his mother was on her way. Nobody spoke about what they were planning to do while they waited. Most of them just spoke in low tones, catching up since they’d all been apart for so long.

It was weird. Seeing everyone back. Having them all in one place. It was awkward, and uncomfortable, and it was clear there was still a lot of hurt and anger and pain between them all. But it was Stiles. And he mattered to all of them one way or another. Hell, even to Jackson, apparently.

To be fair, Stiles had saved his life. Stiles was always there for everyone when they needed him the most. It was only right that everyone else should be there for him.

When Melissa arrived, she started at the sight of half the people in the room. There were more greetings and questions, but everyone eventually quieted down and Deaton got to his feet, reviewing the page in his hand.

“Do you need anything?” the sheriff asked gruffly. He had his arms crossed and his face was blank, but Derek could hear his heart pounding in his chest. If this didn’t work, Derek didn’t know what he would do.

Not let the man go home, that was for sure. He’d probably been drinking again, but Derek could really only worry about one Stilinski at a time, and Stiles took priority.

“No,” Deaton said. “It is simple, just ill-advised.”

“Ill-advised how?” Scott asked slowly.

“As you know, your Lycanthropy is a form of magic. Different magics mixing can have adverse effects, as seen with what happened the last time.”

He was talking about the Nogitsune. About the nightmares Scott, Allison and Stiles had been having after they’d performed the spell to find their parents.

“You said this one didn’t have a price,” Derek snapped at Peter.

“All magic has a price,” Deaton countered before Peter could speak. “This one’s isn’t steep, it relies on the will of those around the feral beast. So long as none of us lose our desires to help him, it will succeed and the price will have been paid. I just hesitate because of his state of mind.”

“Can’t get any worse,” Jackson muttered. A few people shot him a look but he just shrugged, clearly unconcerned.

Deaton waited, watching Scott for permission. Surprisingly, Scott looked at Derek. Probably so that he could blame him if things went wrong.

Derek didn’t think there was anything left to lose, so he just nodded. Scott nodded back, then looked at Deaton.

“Do it.”

Deaton inclined his head and told them to stand around the mountain ash barrier, in a large circle. It was difficult, there being so many of them, but they managed to fit around the circle with Deaton moving to take his spot as well.

Stiles began to growl low in his throat, clearly displeased. He looked around nervously, unsure of what was going on, but Derek just pressed one hand on the barrier.

“Hey,” he said softly, Stiles’ eyes shooting back to him. “You’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be fine.”

Stiles didn’t stop growling, but he just kept staring at Derek like he wanted to believe him.

Derek kept eye contact with him while Deaton began to chant. It was in Latin, and Derek understood half the words, but he didn’t let his eyes leave Stiles’. He could tell Deaton was reading through the spell a few times over, changing inflections and speed, but after the fifth run through, he stopped, and they all stared at Stiles.

He just kept staring back at Derek.

Derek’s stomach hit his feet and he let his hand slide off the barrier. It was stupid to think it would work.

“I’m sorry,” Deaton said quietly.

“No,” the sheriff insisted, voice cracking. “No, no—you did it wrong. We missed something! There’s-there’s a _reason_  it didn’t work! Try again!”

“John,” Melissa said softly, but he just shouted for Deaton to try again. The sound had Stiles growling, turning to him, but Peter let out a sharp bark of laughter.

Everyone turned to him as he continued to laugh, shaking his head. For one, horrible moment, Derek thought this had all been a joke to him. That he’d just pretended this was a cure but it was actually something else.

The next words out of his mouth suggested otherwise.

“Forgive me, we forgot one very important piece of the puzzle. Do try not to let those Hunters take him, I’ll be back in two days.”

Without another word, he left the loft.

Derek and Scott shared a look across the circle, but said nothing.

Whatever happened, Derek couldn’t let the sheriff return home tonight.

* * *

It was barely past dawn when Derek’s head jerked up off his pillow, insistent knocking sounding at the door. He let out a slow breath and rolled over, rubbing at his face with both hands and groaning.

He wasn’t getting much sleep, not with the knowledge that Stiles might no longer be saved, but even the few hours he managed to get kept being interrupted by something or another. He heard shuffling downstairs, knowing John was heading for the door, but Derek obediently climbed out of bed and started down the stairs as it was pulled open.

“Chris,” the sheriff said, sounding broken and exhausted.

“I know what happened to him.”

Derek was on the first floor instantly, staring across the open space at Chris while he hurried into the loft carrying a laptop under one arm, a bag over his shoulder. John shut and locked the door behind him, holstering a gun Derek hadn’t even noticed until now.

Considering what had happened the night before with the Hunters, it made sense.

“I didn’t have all the pieces before, but with the hints from last night, and a few called in favours, I know what happened.”

Chris sat down at the little table, setting his laptop down and opening it. Derek and the sheriff joined him while he booted it up and opened a web browser. He went to his favourites and clicked on a website whose tagline was “A New Kind of Entertainment.”

That definitely didn’t bode well and Derek’s stomach twisted into knots at what they might end up looking at.

When the page loaded, he frowned, because it was all dark colours and red borders, full of links and videos and headers.

“The man last night is called James Valeris. His family is an old Hunter family, similar to ours. We never ran in the same circles, but I always knew his ideals were different than mine, even before I changed my code. After our meeting last night, I went home and started digging. Tried to figure out what he’d been doing the past few years.” He turned to the sheriff and Derek, leaving the main screen of the site in place. “Calling in some favours led me to this site. I had to create a profile and pay a steep admittance fee, but once you’re in, as long as you’ve proven your credibility as a Hunter, you just pay a monthly fee and have unlimited access to everything the site has to offer.”

“Which is what?” John asked uncertainly.

Chris looked at him sadly, then said, “I know why they want him back so badly.”

He turned back to the screen, and clicked on a tab that said “contestants.” Derek’s stomach hit his feet for a second time in only a few short hours. There was a large tree boasting different names and titles, as well as _owners_ , outlining winners and losers of what seemed to be some kind of Supernatural fight club.

At the very top, underneath the word ‘undefeated,’ was a picture of Stiles, the name Romulus, and in smaller print, ‘owner: James Valeris.’

Derek heard the sheriff’s breathing become erratic, not that he could blame him.

“Are you telling me,” John said, voice cracking, “that my son was forced to fight against Supernatural creatures?”

“Yes,” Chris said quietly. “And he was winning.”

Derek turned to look at Stiles. He hadn’t reacted to Chris’ arrival other than to grumble at being woken. He was in his nest, like he often was, not a care in the world. His eyes were open and locked on Chris, but he shifted his gaze to Derek when he saw him looking. Grumbling low in his throat, he twisted around in his nest so his back was to them and seemed like he was trying to go back to sleep.

“There are hundreds of videos,” Chris said quietly, making Derek turn back to him. “From his auction, to the last time anyone saw him in the ring.”

When he clicked on Stiles’ picture, the sheriff let out a wounded noise, stumbled backwards insisting that he couldn’t, and then raced for the bathroom. Derek winced as he heard him retching, but he didn’t turn away. He couldn’t.

He knew something had turned Stiles into this, and he had to know what. Had to know if there was a chance to use it to get him back.

So when Chris paused, likely unsure if he should proceed, Derek leaned forward to press his fingers against the touchpad and scrolled to the bottom. It made him feel sick to see how many videos there were. It was like trying to refresh a Youtube page where someone had been making videos almost daily for three years. It kept stuttering and buffering, attempting to load everything, and after a few minutes, they finally reached the bottom.

The videos were mostly titled things like ‘match one’ and ‘championship match silver’ and the like, but a few of them had different titles, and the very first video was called ‘Auction - First Ever Human.’

Derek clicked on it before he could change his mind.

It immediately went to full screen without his prompting, and for a moment, the screen buffered, a small circle appearing in the middle and turning around and around. Then, sound crackled to life, the screen still dark, and Derek could hear Stiles’ harsh, laboured breathing.

Lights turned on without warning and he recoiled, blinking rapidly to attempt to get his eyes to focus and looking around. He was wearing grey sweats and a plain black T-shirt. His hands were cuffed together behind his back, and two pairs of legs were visible behind him while he looked around urgently.

 _“What is this?”_ Stiles demanded. _“What the fuck is going on?!”_

A growl from behind them made Derek whip around, Chris hitting the space bar to pause the video. Stiles was looking at him again, growling low and clearly unhappy. He probably recognized his own voice on the screen.

Derek didn’t care, he had to know, so he faced the computer once more and hit the space bar, watching.

 _“Where the hell am I?”_ he started to get to his feet but let out a sharp cry when one of the people behind him slammed the end of a black rod into his back. The way he convulsed suggested it was a tazer and Derek’s hands curled into angry fists.

 _“Lot 7-5-7,”_ another voice said while Stiles gasped for breath, struggling not to tip forward. His head lifted, looking around himself. _“A rarity, even in our circles. A human the Lautus Striga has deemed worthy. Touched by darkness, part of a Pack of wolves, strong despite his humanity. One of a kind. The first of its kind.”_

 _“What the fuck is this?!”_ Stiles shouted, then screamed again when another rod was jabbed into his back.

The wolf behind Derek was growling louder, but he ignored him, watching Stiles fall forward on the screen, coughing and struggling to gasp in air.

_“As the first human, we understand the reluctance to invest, so the Lautus Striga has agreed to provide a demonstration to show the human’s worth.”_

That couldn’t be good, and Derek growled himself when one of the men behind Stiles jabbed him again with the tazer, Stiles convulsing on the ground before twitching and breathing hard. One of the men bent down to undo the cuffs and then a metal bat landed beside Stiles’ head, the two retreating.

A door slammed somewhere off-screen and it was clear it took considerable effort for Stiles to get back to his feet, but he struggled his way up anyway, gritting his teeth and coughing, his muscles twitching.

_“As you can see, very resilient. He was struck with the same number of volts as a regular Werewolf.”_

_“Will you **shut up**!”_ Stiles spat, grabbing the bat and using it to help him get to his feet. _“I’m not for sale. My dad’s a cop,”_ he bit out. Once he was fully standing, he stumbled slightly, turning in a circle. It was hard to see much, given the light was shining directly on Stiles, but Derek felt inclined to believe he was in a room of mirrors, potential buyers on the other side watching him.

Stiles gripped the bat hard in both hands, let out a shout, and then slammed it hard against the closest mirror. It cracked, but didn’t break. His muscles were still twitching and he seemed out of breath, like he was having trouble breathing.

A door opened and Stiles turned, the bat raised, then his face fell.

 _“What the fu—what the fuck **is**  that?!”_ he demanded, voice a little higher than normal.

There was a sound, like ripping skin, and then something Derek didn’t recognize flew at Stiles. He managed to dodge, rolling under the beast’s wide swing. Derek could hear the current Stiles growling louder behind him, but he ignored him, because he was too far into the video now to stop.

He had no idea what the monster fighting Stiles was, it wasn’t anything he’d ever seen before. He tensed when the beast slashed wicked claws at Stiles’ back and heard him scream, but he didn’t fall and he didn’t give up. He just turned and swung the bat with everything he had, a cry of both rage and fear escaping him, getting some distance between himself and the beast.

It seemed to take an eternity for Stiles to win the fight. The monster was quick, but Stiles was nimble. Years of running with wolves and fighting Supernatural creatures stronger and faster than him had helped him adapt to dealing with them. While the beast was fast and lethal, Stiles was managing to twist out of the way at the last second, using the bat to keep some distance between them until he had an opening.

Once he did, he swung the bat again, the speed of it catching in the video, whistling through the air, aimed right at the thing’s head. Derek didn’t know if maybe the beast had an allergy to the metal the bat was made of, or if Stiles just happened to guess on the weakest point of its body, because there was a sickening crunch and whatever had been attacking him fell to the ground, black ooze escaping from the crack in its skull. Stiles let out another scream and began slamming the bat hard against the mirror he’d previously been attacking. With two hits, the glass shattered, exposing a crowd of people on the other side, who scrambled back.

Before Stiles could jump through the opening, someone was behind him and he screamed and fell to his knees when he was tazed again, the bat falling from his hand. He fell flat on his face, convulsing, even as the person behind him kept the tazer pressed against his skin.

 _“That’s enough,”_ another voice said and the tazer was pulled back.

Stiles didn’t get up again, muscles twitching and hands struggling to shift and support his weight so he could stand, but he was shaking too badly to follow through.

_“Bidding will begin at one-hundred thousand.”_

A series of dings followed this statement, and Derek realized with a sick feeling in his stomach that Stiles had just given them a reason to bid on him. He didn’t have a choice, it was fight or die, but his win had caused him to be treated like something that could be owned.

_“Sold. New owner: James Valeris.”_

The screen went black.

Derek stared at it for a long moment, the video returning to its original size and showing off all the others that existed. It took a conscious effort for him not to hurl the damn thing across the room and tear the entire loft apart.

He had to know. He had to know what had happened to him. How bad it had gotten. He had to know when... how... with Stiles. He had to know.

But Stiles was still growling behind him, clearly displeased with what had just been playing. Derek couldn’t watch these videos with him here.

Turning to Chris, who looked a little pale, suggesting he hadn’t watched any of the videos himself, Derek said, “I need to borrow this.”

Chris turned to him, then shifted to look back at Stiles. He faced Derek again and nodded once.

“I’ll stay here with the sheriff.”

Derek nodded in thanks, then slapped the screen shut. Chris hadn’t typed in a password, and he hadn’t logged into the site, so it would be easy to open it once more. Chris pulled the power cable from the bag he’d brought along and held it out to Derek, who took it, tucked the laptop under his arm, and left the loft.

He wanted to go back to the house and watch it there alone, but he knew that wasn’t fair. It wasn’t just about him, other people had come for Stiles, and they all deserved to know. The sheriff didn’t want to, but that was his right. Everyone else—he’d give them the option. Whether they came or not was up to them.

Opening the group chat once he got into the Camaro, he sent out a message, knowing someone would let Kira know. Peter had left town, so they’d have to fill him in later, and Isaac probably already knew given Chris was the one who’d found the videos. If he hadn’t come along, he obviously didn’t want to know.

 **[Derek]**  
I know what happened to Stiles. Chris found videos. I’m going home to watch them. Come if you want. Don’t if you don’t.  
**[Derek]**  
They’re very graphic. He’s not okay in them.

Unsurprisingly, Scott was the first to respond.

 **[Scott]**  
brt  
**[Scott]**  
dont start w/o me

 **[Lydia]**  
I’m coming with Kira.

Derek shoved his phone back in his pocket and started the Camaro, heading for the house. By the time he got there, Jackson’s Porsche was already sitting in the driveway behind the Jeep, and Malia was sitting on the porch steps.

Letting the three others into the house, he set the laptop down on the coffee table and went to find an HDMI cable so he could connect the computer to the television. By the time he came back downstairs, Scott, Lydia and Kira had shown up along with Liam and Parrish. Mason had decided he wasn’t interested, and Deaton couldn’t leave the clinic. Melissa had apparently gone to the loft to stay with John and Chris.

And Stiles.

Derek explained the situation just as Chris had, then opened the first video, forced to watch it again. Lydia spent the whole thing with both hands over her mouth and tears in her eyes. Everyone else watched with horror, but seemed to try and detach themselves as much as possible.

There were far too many videos to watch all of them, so they had to pick and choose. They watched the first two after the auction, mostly to get an idea of how the fights worked. Apparently they were timed, and the goal was to render the other party unable to fight before the timer ran out. Stiles, being human, was always allowed some kind of weapon when he went into the large cages, and most of the time the buzzer rang with neither of them being taken down. Stiles was good at dodging, and he’d started climbing the cage in his first go around, clinging to the bars in the ceiling.

It didn’t do much against Werewolves, but his first opponent had been a Vampire and while powerful, they didn’t jump as high as Werewolves did, and didn’t fly like myths insisted they could. So Stiles just clung to the bars, arms shaking, and managed to outlast the Vampire.

Apparently if both were still in good health at the end of the timer, the enforcers came in and beat them until one of them fell unconscious. The one who remained conscious the longest was proclaimed the winner.

Stiles won the first round only because the enforcers couldn’t reach him, and the video cut out once the winner was announced with Stiles still pressed flat against the ceiling, feet locked into the bars and arms shaking from hanging on.

They’d apparently learned from their mistake because the next video, when Stiles tried to do the same thing, they electrocuted the bars and he fell back into the middle of the cage with barely enough time to dodge an attack.

He won the second round by the skin of his teeth, but not without injury. It explained all the scars, because Stiles was still human at the beginning and he was fighting monsters.

Monsters with sharp teeth and claws.

They skipped a few videos, mostly looking at titles to decide whether or not to watch them. They watched all the ones in the championship round, which happened twice a year as far as they could tell: summer and winter.

There were fights where Stiles was pale and sickly looking, with blood peeking through the light shirts he wore from injuries that obviously hadn’t fully healed, but it was clear that Valeris kept him well cared for. After all, Stiles was an investment, and based on how much money he was getting from the wins, it would be stupid not to keep him healthy.

The bets were always up on the screen, down near the right hand corner. The first few videos they watched, Stiles was always bet against, but when they watched the first year’s winter championship, after he’d creamed everyone in the summer championship, the bids started being more in his favour. Which worked out for people bidding on him since he won the winter championship, too.

They watched video after video, all of them feeling sick and horrified. But it wasn’t until a video from eight months ago caught Derek’s eye that he hesitated. They’d all been keeping their cool, trying to detach themselves from what they were watching, pretending it wasn’t one of their friends on the screen.

This was different, though. Because this video was titled ‘The Fall of Romulus?’

Derek knew this was the one where he turned into a Werewolf.

He turned to look at Lydia, seeing how she was doing. She’d been crying silently for a while now, tears streaming steadily down her face. Kira was gripping her hand in an iron tight hold, her face an emotionless mask.

Scott was the one who reached over and clicked on it and they all focussed on the screen once more.

The fight started like it always did, with a monster underestimating Stiles. This one was an Alpha, and while Stiles had fought them before on the screen, this one was different. He moved faster, was less predictable.

“He’s feral,” Malia said quietly from beside Derek.

“Yeah,” Derek agreed softly.

They hadn’t seen ferals so far in the ring, mostly because it looked like nobody wanted their investments going to waste by being killed. Evidently, Stiles’ two year winning streak was making them have to up the ante to keep things interesting.

Stiles fought hard, but it was obvious a prior injury to his leg was making him move slower than normal. He was doing fairly well for the first half, but his leg gave out when he tried to swing the bat he held and the feral Alpha took advantage of it.

The bat was wrenched from his hands, and Stiles jerked away, rolling and scrambling after it. He’d just closed his hand around the head of the bat, getting up onto his knees and beginning to turn so he could swing when the Alpha caught his wrist with one hand, grabbed a fistful of hair with the other, and wrenched his head to the side.

Derek lowered his eyes when he heard Stiles scream, feeling his gorge rise and clenching his hands into fists. There was a commotion on the screen and it took effort for him to raise his gaze once more.

Stiles had twisted to knee the Alpha in the balls, and he let out a cry of rage before leaping up and slamming the bat down repeatedly on the Alpha’s head. Blood was streaming down his neck from a gaping wound, but Stiles looked crazed, slamming the bat down over and over again, blood spattering around him and flecks of it flying off the bat with each swing.

The Alpha was dead, and the buzzer sounded to proclaim a winner. Stiles stumbled back, dropping the bat, and then fell over, landing hard on his side and screaming. Rolling onto his back, he arched it and screamed louder, hands clawing at the ground.

The screen cut off just as James Valeris bolted into the cage towards his property, looking furious.

“Guess a Werewolf is worth less than a badass human,” Malia said into the silence that followed.

“He’s still undefeated,” Scott insisted quietly. “There are more videos.”

And he was right, because the next video boasted the name ‘Romulus Returns’ and looked to have been two months later. They’d probably had to take Stiles off the roster for a while, considering he was newly turned.

They watched the next video, mostly because they didn’t know how to stop. Stiles was clumsy, and barely won against another Were, but it was obvious he still hadn’t gotten his new abilities under control. He kept clapping his hands over his ears, like the noise was deafening, and he no longer had weapons when he walked into the cage.

The next video was better, and he seemed to be getting back to normal. It was the video four months later, two months before Stiles had been found, where the shift happened. Romulus was back in the cage, but he was restrained and growling, eyes flashing blue. Before he was released, the announcer told the crowd they were in for a treat. A feral Werewolf, undefeated champion, would be fighting off against the previous undefeated champion. They’d never fought before, and apparently the other champion was also feral. He’d been the reigning champion for two years, so the bets were stacked against Stiles.

He won. It was the first video where he was merciless and ruthless. He snapped the other Were’s neck with primal rage and then roared, looking pleased with himself. It was a far cry from the Stiles they all knew and it made Derek’s stomach clench.

It also gave him a timeline for how long Stiles had been feral. Two months. That was a long fucking time, he honestly didn’t know if that was _too_  long.

The next few videos showed much of the same, Stiles fighting against others, primarily Werewolves, and always winning. He always went for a killing blow, but they’d started to electrocute him before he could succeed, mostly because some of the Weres he fought were Alphas and it seemed no one wanted him to become an Alpha.

Though something interesting did happen during the fights that had Derek a little optimistic. He waited until they’d reached the last video, which was from a month ago, and was titled ‘The King of Rome.’ Stiles had defeated his opponent and been electrocuted as usual, however it was clear he wasn’t as injured as he’d played up. The second people entered the cage to restrain him and drag him out, he leapt up, tore through one guy’s neck with his teeth, threw the other into the cage wall and disappeared through the cage doors just as the video cut to black.

Derek assumed it was left in just for ratings, because a few of the other videos had shown Stiles’ escape attempts, only to be followed up by another fight less than a week later. The only difference here was that this escape attempt had actually succeeded.

Stiles had gotten out. He’d escaped, and made his way back to Beacon Hills.

Peter needed to hurry up and come back with whatever the missing piece was, because Stiles could be saved. It wasn’t too late. Derek _knew_  it wasn’t too late.

Because Stiles was still _in there_!

“What?” Scott asked, clearly sensing the shift.

“We can get him back.” Derek turned to Scott. “It’s not too late, he can come _back_ , Scott.”

“It’s been two months,” Liam said quietly. “I thought you said—”

“You don’t get it.” Derek turned to him, then focussed on Scott again. “When I ran into the cave, yes I stopped before anything happened, but look at this.” Derek motioned the screen, which had returned to the main video library. “Look at everything he’s gone through, both sane and insane. Stiles’ first instinct when he senses another Supernatural being is to attack them because that’s what he’s been doing for _three years_!” Derek motioned himself. “I ran into that cave, and he roared, Scott. That’s all he did. He hunkered down and roared. He didn’t come at me, he didn’t attack me until I grabbed at him to get him off you, which was probably something he perceived as threatening. And in the videos, there were other Alphas. Alphas who roared to make him submit, who tried to get him under control as a means to win. He never submitted. Never even showed signs of it. But with you? With you, you roared, and he submitted. Barely, but he did. He didn’t attack you, or me, he just fell to his knees and tilted his head.” Derek pointed at the screen again. “Everything that’s happened since he got out suggests Stiles is _in there_. He found his way home. He didn’t attack me. He submitted to you. Stiles is pulling at the wolf, he’s _trying_  to come back. We just need to help him before it’s too late.”

Derek looked back at the screen, at the last video they’d watched.

At the king of Rome.

“We need to get him back before we can’t anymore.”

* * *

Derek didn’t sleep that night.

He couldn’t. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the moment right before the Alpha’s teeth sank into Stiles’ neck. Heard Stiles’ agonized scream. That he’d managed to kill the Alpha before succumbing to the pain of the bite was remarkable, in Derek’s opinion.

Another part of him was livid, because that death should’ve counted towards his Alpha status. An Alpha Stiles would’ve been harder to turn feral. They would’ve had more time. But he’d killed that Alpha as a human, before the change had finished processing. And so, he turned as a Beta.

But he was still undefeated. He was the longest reigning champion. Sure, the other had been two years strong before fighting Stiles, but that didn’t matter. Stiles had beaten everyone, and when the other champion had been put in his path, he’d cut him down, too.

Derek knew that even if they got Stiles back, he wouldn’t be the same. Not after what he’d endured. Not after everything he’d done.

He knew that Stiles was going to hate himself, would probably be furious they’d brought him out of his feral state at all. Because being feral was much easier. He wouldn’t have to think about or come to terms with what he’d done. He’d killed in that ring. Not often, and always justified, but he’d still killed.

Derek knew better than anyone that Stiles was _not_  going to be okay if he ever came back to himself.

The sheriff wasn’t working the night shift today, and Derek could hear him downstairs. He was speaking to Stiles in low tones, telling him stories about his past, his childhood. Likely trying to pull him back from wherever his mind had gone, but he knew it wouldn’t be that easy.

They’d tried a number of things while waiting on Peter to come back. He’d only been gone two days, but it was enough for them to try whatever they could. Nothing seemed to be working, and Derek was worried nothing ever would.

What if that spell was it? What if that was their last chance, and if whatever Peter had gone to retrieve didn’t work, they would lose Stiles?

He didn’t want to think about it, but he didn’t want to think about the videos, either. James Valeris wasn’t going to stop coming for Stiles, not when he was undefeated and stood to make the man millions. Nevermind that Peter had paid him off, Peter was a Werewolf, Valeris probably looked at that money as owed to him.

It still didn’t explain how Stiles had ended up where he did, though. The auction had mentioned a Lautus Striga. Derek knew there were a lot of different meanings to those words, but ‘striga’ meant ‘Witch’ in some variations of the word. So was that a _real_  Witch, or just a title? After all, Stiles had been called Romulus, so it was entirely likely the Lautus Striga, or ‘Grand Witch’ was just an old lady who raked in the dough. Seemed unlikely a Supernatural would be running the show, considering who was in the ring.

But then... the auctioneer had said she sensed darkness in Stiles. Evidently she was referring to the Nogitsune, but how could someone know that without _knowing_  it? Either this was an inside job—unlikely, given the Pack’s frantic search—or she was truly magic.

And if she was, that was sickening, because she was turning on her own kind. Creating an underground Supernatural fight club where monsters fought one another whether they wanted to or not. How could one Supernatural do that to so many others? It didn’t make any sense.

Then again, money was a powerful motivator.

Dawn was beginning to creep up on him when Derek heard his phone buzz. He turned to glance at it, debated whether or not to check it, then pulled it over, not having plugged it in overnight. His chest clenched when Chuck’s name appeared on the screen, the man having sent him a message.

He’d been doing that the past few days, asking Derek how he was doing, if he needed to talk, needed _anything_. It was hard lying to the man, but Derek didn’t want him to know about all this Supernatural bullshit. He just always replied that he needed more time and that he was sorry.

Chuck always told him to shut the hell up and take all the time he needed.

Derek missed the garage. He missed going there and working on the cars. Missed thinking about something other than his own anxiety and fear of having lost Stiles again, just in a different way.

He opened the text message and tapped out a reply.

 **[Chuck]**  
hey kid how r u doin?

 **[Derek]**  
Why are you awake so early?

 **[Chuck]**  
im an old man ill sleep when im dead  
**[Chuck]**  
u didnt answr my q

Derek stared at the text for a long while, feeling his eyes burn. He covered them with his free hand, struggling to breathe. He was only twenty-eight years old. How much more could he lose before the universe finally tired of torturing him?

 **[Derek]**  
Not good  
**[Derek]**  
I don’t know what to do

 **[Chuck]**  
wat do u need son?  
**[Chuck]**  
tell me wat i can do

“Nothing,” Derek said miserably. But that wasn’t what he typed.

 **[Derek]**  
I don’t know

 **[Chuck]**  
come by the shop  
**[Chuck]**  
ur up neway  
**[Chuck]**  
come make urself useful

Derek stared at the message for a long while, then rubbed one hand over his face and climbed out of bed, tapping out that he’d be there in a minute before putting his phone back on the nightstand. He got himself dressed and ready to leave, then pushed his phone, wallet and keys into his pockets.

The sheriff was still awake when he got downstairs, and he saw Stiles staring at the man with wide, intelligent eyes, like he was drinking in his every word. They were still electric blue, though, so Stiles wasn’t in there.

“I’m going out for a bit,” he said to the sheriff, the man turning to him, looking exhausted and defeated.

“I’ll be here.”

“I know, John.” Derek patted his shoulder lightly on his way by, then headed for the door. He could see Stiles watching him out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t look at him. He just walked out of the loft and closed the door behind him, securing it as best he could to ensure nothing got in or out.

The drive to the garage was familiar and comforting, and when he reached it, he parked out back where Chuck’s car was already located. He saw Lloyd’s bike was there, too. He was probably inside as well. Derek wondered if Chuck had called him or if Lloyd had already been on his way in.

He let himself into the back room, walking through the office and out into the main garage. Chuck and Lloyd were both bent over, looking into the guts of a sleek Mercedes. They didn’t hear him approach, but Lloyd startled when Derek’s shadow fell over them.

“Christ. Trying to give us a heart attack?” Lloyd demanded with a scowl. He gave Derek a once-over before saying, “You look like shit.”

“Jesus, kid,” Chuck agreed. “You been sleeping?”

“No,” Derek admitted. “Things... they’re not good.” He raked a shaky hand through his hair. “I don’t know what to do. I feel like I’m falling apart.”

Chuck’s expression softened about one percent. He wasn’t really a feelings kind of guy, but he cared about Derek, and he showed him that in his own way. Tough love, they all called it. Chuck was a master at it.

“Come on, son. Let’s get you working on something. It’ll keep your brain busy.”

Chuck slapped him once in the back before wrapping one beefy arm around his shoulders and dragging him towards another car. All it needed was an oil change, having been dropped off at closing with the owner coming by once they opened to pick it up.

Derek got to work on that, even though it literally took him five minutes. Chuck seemed to have a few menial jobs for him, likely not wanting him to do anything too labour-heavy since Derek clearly wasn’t in the right frame of mind.

He helped Lloyd replace a few parts in various other cars, and once the shop opened and the others showed up, they all greeted him kindly and slapped him on the back, saying it was good to see him. Derek tried to focus on how good it felt to be back in the shop. Around people he relied on, who were his friends, and weren’t affected by all the Supernatural bullshit that governed the rest of his life.

This was one place. One place in his stupid existence that the Supernatural hadn’t yet touched. He really hoped it stayed that way, because he couldn’t lose something else.

He couldn’t.

He had half his upper body under a Toyota with Lloyd passing him parts while eating a breakfast sandwich when Alex’s voice rang through the shop.

“Yo, Derek. Phone’s for you. Sounds important, guy’s kind of a dick about it.”

Derek almost flipped the car right off him, but managed to reign himself in, sliding out quickly from underneath it, heart slamming against his ribs. He raced for the office, the shop going eerily quiet, and practically wrenched the phone from Alex’s hand when he didn’t let it go fast enough.

“Hello? What happened?”

_“Relax, nephew, he’s fine. You didn’t answer your phone. I had to guess on where you were.”_

Derek’s hand went to his pocket, but his phone was probably dead after so many hours of not being charged.

“You’re back,” Derek said.

_“I am. Call the Pack, I have the final piece. See you at the loft.”_

The line clicked and Derek hung up, staring at the phone for a long moment. He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to go back to the loft. Didn’t want to call the Pack, have everyone show up, have them stand in a circle and chant Latin and have Stiles just... sit there.

He didn’t want to go through that again. The pain, and knowledge that Stiles wasn’t in there anymore. That he’d lost him. Again.

Again, and again, and again. When was he going to stop losing the people he cared about? He’d lost Stiles so many times in different ways, he didn’t think he could handle this anymore. He wanted to climb into the Camaro and leave town. Just drive and drive and drive and hope nobody ever found him. Hoped he just disappeared from existence. He couldn’t do this anymore.

He could only bend so much before he broke.

“Kid?”

A hand fell lightly onto his shoulder, squeezing hard, and he felt his chest constrict. His throat tightened and he was positive he was about to lose it, but he had to stay focussed. Had to stay in control.

“Son? Are you okay?”

“I have to go,” Derek said softly. “I have... someone needs me.”

“Yeah,” Chuck said, voice less gruff than usual. “Someone always does.” A short pause, the hand remaining on his shoulder. “Lloyd and I are having a barbecue this weekend. Come over, just for a bit. Just to get some distance.”

Derek’s throat tightened further. “I’ll try. I have to go.”

Chuck’s hand slid off his shoulder and Derek hurried out of the office, heading for the back door. He disappeared through it and was in the Camaro in seconds, breathing hard and resting his forehead against the steering wheel.

This had to work. It had to. If it didn’t work, Derek didn’t know what he was going to do. He _needed_  it to work.

If it didn’t, he was going to find James Valeris and fucking tear his other eye out. He was going to raze the earth, destroy any and all Hunters he could get his hands on. He was going to lose his fucking _mind_.

Letting out another slow breath, he straightened and pulled out his phone. It had barely any juice left, not enough for a call which was probably why Peter couldn’t get through, but enough for him to send a text or two. So he opened the group chat and typed out a message.

 **[Derek]**  
Peter’s back  
**[Derek]**  
Meet at the loft  
**[Derek]**  
Tell whoever isn’t in the chat

He waited to confirm the messages actually sent, then closed it out, and stared at the phone, feeling his stomach drop when he saw the date. 

Wednesday.

Shoving the phone viciously back into his pocket, he had to take a few seconds to calm himself down before he started the car and headed back for the loft.

Parrish was already there when he showed up and they headed upstairs together, Derek unlocking the door and sliding it open. The sheriff turned to look at them, Stiles doing the same, but once he saw who it was, he turned back to his father, seeming uninterested.

“What’s going on?” John asked.

“Peter’s back,” Derek muttered. “We’re trying again.”

The sheriff’s lips pressed into a hard line, and Derek knew how he felt. He knew, because it was how Derek himself felt, too. Like they were just setting themselves up for more heartache. Like Stiles was gone, and he wasn’t coming back.

But neither of them said it. Derek just went to sit on the stairs, waiting for the others to arrive. Peter was the first to show up, and Derek stared incredulously at the person who followed him through the door.

“Cora,” he said, unable to believe it.

She shifted uncomfortably, crossing her arms. “Hey Derek.”

“You came.” He honestly had no idea how to feel. He and Cora hadn’t spoken, not really, in years. When Stiles had gone missing, he’d reached out to ask for help, and she’d agreed to it on her side of the world, but since then they hadn’t exactly kept in touch.

It meant more than he could voice to have her standing here, because he realized Peter was right. They _had_  been missing someone. Cora was the last member of their Pack who was still alive, everyone else was already there. The spell hadn’t worked because the whole Pack hadn’t been present, and out of everyone from the original group of them, Cora cared about Stiles the most. They’d formed a strong friendship before she’d left, and it was the only reason Derek had bothered asking for her help. He knew she’d do it, because she, like everyone else, cared about Stiles.

There were mixed reactions when the rest of the Pack showed up. Some people seemed pleased to see Cora, Lydia going so far as to hug her. Others weren’t as happy, Scott scowling at her like she’d betrayed them and not even acknowledging her. That seemed fine with Cora, since she didn’t look happy to be there at all.

She went to bend down in front of Stiles, who stared back at her, baring his teeth. She just smiled and flicked at the barrier right where his face was before standing.

Deaton was the last to arrive, and it was clear when he did that he was unhappy they were trying this again. Derek was unhappy, too. Most of them looked unhappy.

But what else could they do? They had to try this again, because if they didn’t, they had nothing. This was literally it, and Derek couldn’t... he couldn’t just sit around and read and _wait_  for Stiles to fix himself.

If there was even a one percent chance this would work with Cora, they had to try, and Derek just hoped a second failure wouldn’t break him entirely. He wouldn’t be able to come back from that.

“Around the barrier, if you would,” Deaton said softly.

Derek stood, and they all shuffled along the barrier where space permitted, spreading themselves out. Deaton took the same spot as last time, pulling the page from his pocket and unfolding it. He stared down at it for a few moments, saying nothing.

Finally, he let out a small sigh, closed his eyes, reopened them, and began to read.

Derek’s eyes shot from Deaton to Stiles when he heard a grunt. The sound made Deaton pause, and Stiles let out a small growl, getting to his feet and stalking around the inside of the circle on all fours, eying them all.

Derek and Scott shared a look, then Scott turned back to Deaton.

“Keep going.”

Deaton glanced at him, then back at Stiles, and looked down at the page once more. When he started reading again, Stiles let out another grunt, freezing in his tracks and shaking his head.

Derek’s heart was pounding in his chest, blood roaring in his ears. He could hear similar reactions from those around him, and Lydia’s hand found his, squeezing tightly while they stared.

A distinctly human cry left Stiles and he fell onto his side, curling in on himself and clutching at his head while Deaton continued to chant, reading the same lines over and over again.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Peter was saying repeatedly somewhere on Derek’s right. “Come on, Stiles, come on.”

Stiles cried out again, eyes clenched shut and knees tucking in further, hands pressed against his ears. Deaton had to speak louder to be heard over Stiles’ screaming, and then abruptly, it cut off.

Deaton stopped, everyone froze. Derek didn’t even breathe, he just stared down at Stiles, lying on his side near the far edge of the barrier away from him, breathing hard with sweat dotting his skin.

After a minute, hour, day, _year_ , Stiles blinked open his eyes, and looked up at Derek.

His eyes were brown.

His eyes were _brown_.

“Stiles,” John choked out, and before anyone could stop him, he’d crossed over the barrier, racing for his son.

Derek saw Stiles tense when the sheriff reached him, yanking him upright and crushing him in a hug, one hand splayed on his scarred back while the other buried in his hair.

The sheriff was crying, rocking Stiles from side to side while he held onto him for dear life, a steady mantra of “You’re okay, you’re safe, I’ve got you, you’re okay,” escaping his lips. Stiles’ hands were still up by his head, no longer pressed against his ears, but just gripping his own hair while his eyes shifted around the circle, staring at them all in turn.

Lydia let go of Derek’s hand and rushed into the circle, falling beside Stiles and wrapping her arms around him as best she could, face buried in his neck.

Stiles looked a little overwhelmed, his breathing still ragged, like he wasn’t entirely sure what he was seeing was real.

Melissa was crying on the other side of the circle, and Malia was pressing so hard into it that she threatened to actually break through. Scott looked like he was in shock, like he didn’t know if it had actually worked or not.

Stiles’ eyes found Derek again over his father’s shoulder, staring at him.

Derek felt his stomach bottom out, because the look in his eye made it extremely clear what he was about to say. Derek knew what his first words would be, he could practically hear them, and he begged for them not to come. Begged for Stiles to wait. To just wait. To come back to himself fully before asking, to just _wait_.

He didn’t.

“My eyes,” he said, his voice rough and worn from disuse, staring right at Derek. “My eyes, Derek, what colour are they?”

Derek had never known it could hurt this much hearing Stiles ask a simple question. It had been years since he’d heard his voice. Years since the two of them had spoken. Derek would’ve given anything to hear his voice even an hour ago, but now? Hearing that?

He wished he’d left the second he realized it had worked. Because he couldn’t. This couldn’t be the first thing Stiles asked him.

“What colour are my eyes, Derek?!” Stiles demanded, a hint of hysteria in his voice. His father was holding him tighter, and Lydia was sobbing into his neck, but he just kept staring at Derek.

As if he knew the only person who would answer him was the one he was burning holes into with his gaze.

But the absolute horror and panic in his expressive face made it incredibly clear that Stiles knew. He knew what colour his eyes were, and he was desperately hoping he was wrong.

Derek wished he could tell him he was wrong.

“Blue,” he finally whispered. “Your eyes are blue.”

If he’d thought his heart was aching at the question, it was absolutely _nothing_  compared to the feeling of seeing that expression on Stiles’ face.

He looked horrified, and anguished, and disgusted all at once. He looked like someone had told him he _was_  the Nogitsune, and it had never been a possessing spirit, but an actual part of him all along.

He looked like a piece of him had just broken.

“Stiles, it wasn’t your fault,” Derek insisted quickly, feeling the tension in the room. He knew all too well how hard it could be to realize he’d hurt someone, and while the Nogitsune had done that too, it was another entity. It had been the one in control.

To Stiles, whether he was feral or not, whether it was self-defence or not, it was him.

It was still him.

And he knew he’d killed people in that cage. He knew he’d killed that Alpha who’d turned him. And that beast who’d attacked him in the auction. And countless others in the name of survival.

Stiles knew even before he asked that his eyes were blue.

“It was,” Stiles whispered, and Derek’s chest ached because he sounded _wrecked_. He sounded hollow and broken and like he would never be the same. “It _was_  me, Derek. I—when I wasn’t...” His voice cracked and his breaths shook when he tried to speak. “It was me. I did those things. After they—” He cut off, clearly still unable to talk about it. “I just let the wolf take over. Because it hurt less. Because it was easier. I was selfish, and I—”

“Don’t,” Derek growled, the snap of his voice startling enough to stop Stiles mid-sentence. “Don’t you dare say you were selfish for protecting yourself. Not to me.”

Stiles was crying, now. Derek didn’t know if it was his words, or because he was overwhelmed, or because he was finally home and _safe_  and with the people he loved. Maybe it was seeing how many of them had come back for him. How many people cared. How even _Jackson_  had shown up, and Cora, and Isaac. All the people who’d once left were back, for _him_. Because it was Stiles, and they needed him, and he was back.

He was back, he was back, _he was back_.

He came back.

It was a Wednesday.

**TBC...**


	2. Chapter 2

Derek mostly tried to give Stiles space when he came back to himself. They hadn’t spoken to one another since Derek had left the last time, and he knew there were other people who needed him more.

He looked overwhelmed, and nervous, but the thing that concerned Derek the most was that he was quiet.

He was so, so quiet. Normally no one could get him to shut up. Stiles mouthed off at everyone, all the time, but since his return to sanity, he’d barely spoken more than twenty sentences, a majority of them being to Derek.

Derek didn’t like what that suggested about his mental stability. Not that he could blame Stiles. Derek had seen the videos, he knew what he’d gone through. Not first hand, of course, but he could imagine the emotional turmoil that would put someone like Stiles through.

He probably hadn’t even fully come to terms with being a Werewolf. Probably wasn’t even sure how to _be_  a Werewolf, given his entire transformation and subsequent coming to terms with it had all happened while he was a captive. With Hunters, no less, so that probably hadn’t helped much in the developmental stage of his Werewolfness.

Derek sat on the stairs after Deaton broke the mountain ash line, everyone crowding Stiles. They hugged him and spoke to him, talking over one another. A few people hung back, like Jackson and Ethan, and Cora, but everyone else had swarmed him. They were all so excited, laughing and hugging him in turn and insisting they’d tried so hard to find him.

Stiles’ eyes looked terrified every time he shot a look at Derek, and it made him wonder if his control was hanging on by a thread. He didn’t _seem_  to be losing control, but a lot had happened in a very short space of time. And he was tense. So, so tense. Derek supposed it made sense, he’d spent three years attacked by Supernatural creatures and he was currently surrounded by them. They may have been his friends, but his instincts were likely shouting that he was in danger.

When Deaton excused himself to head back to the clinic, saying he was happy Stiles was back, Derek took that as an invitation to leave, as well. Cora stuck so close to his heels she almost tripped him down the stairs, but he knew she just felt uncomfortable. She’d been gone a long time, and to know her presence had brought Stiles back was probably really confusing for her.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, he turned to look at her. She crossed her arms, shifting her weight uncomfortably, and looked anywhere but at him.

“How long are you staying?” he asked quietly.

“Not sure,” she admitted. “Not long.”

He nodded, figuring as much. “You have a place to stay?”

“No.”

“You and Peter can take the loft.”

“What about you?” She frowned at him. He just shrugged and figured he’d crash on Lloyd’s couch or something. He doubted the sheriff would want him around right now.

“It’s good to see you, Cora,” he admitted softly. “You look really good.” He patted her shoulder once, a little awkwardly, then turned to head back for the Camaro.

He was back at the shop in under fifteen minutes, and all the guys paused in what they were doing to stare at him. Derek didn’t look at anyone and just headed straight for the office, grabbing a few files from the cabinet and sitting down to work through them. This was Lloyd’s least favourite part, and Derek liked this much better than the budget, so he sat there and worked slowly through them, checking them for consistency in price and reviewing the files that had been brought in for people’s check-ups.

It didn’t take long for Chuck to hunt him down, sitting down across from him with a long, loud groan before crossing his beefy arms. He was pretty fit for someone pushing seventy.

“Weren’t you gone?”

“I can’t come back?” Derek asked, eyes still on the file he had open in front of him and frowning. One of the guys was showing the client needed new tires because the old ones were bald, but they’d only just replaced the guy’s tires six months ago. That was a little excessive for a six month window, so he’d have to check the car out before they called the client back.

“Kid,” Chuck said, voice gruff. “What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“This morning you looked like a man who’d lost everything. Now you look like someone tore your heart out of your chest and told you to keep walking like nothing happened.”

Derek paused in what he was doing, pen poised on the post-it he’d been writing on, and glanced up. Chuck just raised his eyebrows, clearly waiting on an answer.

A year ago, Derek would’ve stared him down until he left the office, but he and Chuck had an understanding. They were both closed off, and neither of them trusted anyone with anything. But Chuck had given an inch, and Derek had responded in kind to a point where they kind of grudgingly acknowledged they both needed someone there to help them every now and then.

He knew Chuck cared about him a lot. And Derek himself thought very highly of Chuck. He was like a second father to him. It was hard to sit there and force him to walk out when it was clear he just wanted to help. He just wanted to make sure Derek was okay.

Dropping his pen, Derek leaned back in his seat and rubbed at his face. Word was going to get out, anyway, so he saw no point in hiding it.

“The sheriff’s son is back.”

Chuck wasn’t able to keep the surprise from his face, eyebrows shooting up, but he didn’t react otherwise.

“He’s not okay.” Derek knew he kept using those words to describe Stiles, but it was the easiest explanation. Everything else sounded inadequate. “He went through a lot. He and I—we parted on bad terms. I want to be there for him. Help him. But I don’t... I don’t know how. I don’t even know if he’d let me.” Derek raked one hand through his hair, shaking his head and letting out a bitter laugh. “I don’t even know why I came back here. I don’t even know what I’m _doing_.”

“You came back to look for him,” Chuck reminded him, a bit of an edge to his tone, like he wasn’t happy about the self-hate coming out of Derek’s mouth. “You came back to take care of a man this town cares about who was falling apart without his son. The only reason the sheriff is still standing right now, the only reason he’s coherent enough to welcome his son home, is because _you_  kept him on his feet. If not for you, that boy would’ve come home to nothing. So stop acting like what you did in his absence wasn’t important.” Chuck inched the chair closer, resting his folded hands on the desk in front of Derek and inspecting every inch of his face. “What do you need?”

“I don’t know,” Derek admitted.

“Well, when you do, let me know.” Chuck stood then, the chair scraping loudly against the ground. “In the meantime, you’re not going to stop yourself from thinking about the kid doing paperwork. Stopping a car from crushing you, _that_  will keep your mind off him. And I got just the car for you. Come on.”

Derek wanted to insist paperwork was fine, but he knew it was a lie. He was more likely to lose himself to the job if he was trying to stop from getting crushed. Nevermind that Chuck didn’t know Derek could just throw the car off him, but again, he needed to keep his two lives separate. If he was lucky, nobody in the shop would ever find out what he was.

Chuck led Derek through the shop towards the back. He paused when he realized they were approaching the door. The one Lloyd and Chuck always told him not to open, because it was personal. He knew the other guys had been in there before, but they’d also been working in the shop a lot longer than Derek had.

When Chuck noticed he’d stopped, he motioned for him to keep up, reaching the door and pulling it open. Derek followed him through it, frowning at a beat up Mustang sitting up on four blocks, the wheels long gone and the paint so rusted it might as well have been a hunk of rust instead of an actual car.

“What the hell is that?”

“My abandoned side project,” Chuck informed him, moving up to it and running one hand along the rough hood. “I bought this piece of junk right after I was gifted the shop. Kept saying I’d work on it one day, get it running and back to its prime. Never did find the time, and once I retired, I realized my body couldn’t do what it used to. I’m never gonna get this thing fixed and running on my own.” He looked over at Derek. “Reckon you can. Tell you what, kid. You fix up this car in your free time, and I’ll knock ten thousand off the price of the shop.”

“Chuck—”

“Don’t argue, kid. Just get to work.” He thumbed at the car before heading back out into the main part of the garage. Derek watched him walk away until the door slid shut, then turned back to the car, rubbing the back of his neck.

Chuck was crazy if he thought this hunk of junk could ever hit the roads again, but if nothing else, at least he’d provided a distraction. Something for Derek to focus all of his attention on.

So, he got to work. He popped the hood, inspecting the guts of the car, then slid under it to check out what the undercarriage looked like. The frame was almost beyond saving, at this point, but rebuilding the frame from scratch would take an eternity, especially since they didn’t have the tools for it here and Derek couldn’t very well mould it all with his bare hands. That was sure to prompt uncomfortable questions.

Deciding he had to start somewhere, he slowly began taking the frame apart, one of the doors falling off when he opened it and landing on his foot. He’d never been so thankful to be a Werewolf in his life, because that definitely would’ve been cause for concern had he been human.

That thought led his mind back to Stiles and he hastily shoved it aside, continuing his work and focussing on the task at hand.

Lloyd came by to drag him out to lunch, and then followed Derek into the back room when they returned, laughing so hard at the mess he’d been given he was almost crying. He left to work on _real_  cars, and only returned closer to dinner time with a sandwich and a bottle of Coke.

He and Derek sat on stools by the tools, both staring at the car while they ate.

They said nothing for a long time, and when Lloyd finally broke the silence, Derek turned to him.

“You know we care about you, right?”

“I know,” Derek admitted, taking another bite of his sandwich.

“You wanna tell me what all’s been going on?”

Derek didn’t want to go through the story again, because the whole point was not to think about it. Lloyd interpreted his silence as exactly that—him not wanting to talk about it. Before he left though, Derek told him to ask Chuck, and that it was okay for him to know what was bothering him, just not repeated from Derek. He didn’t want to fall down that hole again.

When he was done his drink, he went back to work on the car, losing track of time and enjoying the feel of grease and metal beneath his hands. He was in the process of tearing something out from under the car that _definitely_  didn’t belong there when he froze, hearing a familiar heartbeat approaching.

For a long moment, he didn’t move, positive he was mistaken, but after a few seconds, the door opened and Derek could see Lloyd’s boots from under the car.

“Boss, you’ve got company.”

Lloyd’s feet retreated, but the other set didn’t, waiting patiently while Derek wiped his hands on a rag, let out a slow breath, and finally pushed himself out from under the car. He sat up, still using the rag on his hands, staring at the sheriff who was looking over the car.

“John,” he said, voice entirely too casual.

“Figured you’d be here,” the sheriff said, walking slowly around the car. “Didn’t take you as the type to run away.”

“I wasn’t running,” Derek insisted, getting to his feet and forcing himself not to cross his arms. It would make him look defensive, and he _wasn’t_  running. He was just... giving Stiles space.

“It’s late. Everyone else is already gone for the night. I told Scott to beat it, he’s hogged Stiles almost all day.” The sheriff finally looked up at him and nodded towards the door. “Let’s go home, Derek.”

“I told Peter and Cora they could have the loft,” Derek argued. Technically he’d told Cora, but he was sure she’d pass on the message.

Then again, maybe not, it _was_  Peter, after all.

The look John gave him was a mixture of annoyed and unimpressed.

“Cute. You know that’s not the home I was talking about. Let’s go, it’s late, and I need to figure out my work schedule since I’m not leaving my son’s side for the next few years.”

Derek watched the sheriff walk back around the car to the door, pulling it open but not leaving, eyes on Derek. He raised his eyebrows, and Derek couldn’t believe the change in him.

He still looked exhausted and older than he’d been even a month ago, but the light was back in his eyes, and he stood a little straighter. His shoulders weren’t drooping quite so badly anymore, and he actually had some colour in his face.

John was going to be okay. He had Stiles back, _really_  had him back. They still had to find a way to make the people who’d taken him pay, but for now, the Pack was together, and they were safe.

That was the important thing.

“I don’t think Stiles wants me in the same house as him,” Derek argued, making no move to follow him.

“Stiles is in the car, anxious and unhappy at being left there even though Parrish is with him.” The sheriff gave him a look. “He asked when you were coming back the moment you left.”

That made Derek uncomfortable for reasons he didn’t understand. He and Stiles had a complicated relationship. It had always been complicated, they’d hated one another for a long time. Hatred had turned into friendship which had turned into this weird in-between stage. They weren’t together, but they weren’t _not_  together. They had feelings for one another, strong feelings, and once upon a time, Derek had thought maybe things could move forward.

But then he’d given Stiles an ultimatum. Stiles had rejected him for it. Derek had left. Stiles had disappeared. He didn’t really know where they stood, what he was to Stiles. Was he even still a friend? Or did Stiles just want him around because Derek was the strongest person in their Pack save Parrish?

Or maybe because Derek was the only person who didn’t look at him like he was okay.

Because everyone else was acting like Stiles was fine. He was back, and he was fine. Only Derek, Malia and Peter were looking at him like he was never going to be okay again. And given the options, it was likely Derek was the lesser of those three evils. Malia wouldn’t be able to help him like Derek could, because she was so blunt and had long ago come to terms with her time as a coyote. Hell, she didn’t even feel any remorse for the people she’d hurt, and Peter, well, he was Peter.

Really, if anyone was going to understand Stiles, truly understand him, it was probably going to be Derek.

“Let’s go home, Derek,” the sheriff repeated.

This time, Derek moved to follow him, despite how hard it was to do so.

The shop had closed without Derek even noticing. Only Lloyd was still around, going over files in the office. Derek told him he’d be back tomorrow, and while Lloyd didn’t say anything about it, he nodded in understanding and bid him a good night.

When Derek exited the shop, he found Stiles sitting in the sheriff’s cruiser, but Parrish’s was right next to it, the Hellhound looking around with narrowed eyes, as if daring something to jump out and try and take him.

It suddenly occurred to Derek how hard it must’ve been for the sheriff to walk into the garage to get him, leaving Stiles outside like this.

Derek headed for the Camaro and climbed behind the wheel. He let the sheriff head out first, Parrish behind him, and took up the rear. They drove back to the house, and Derek parked on the road like he always did behind the cruiser. Parrish double-parked beside him and climbed out, moving to the sheriff’s car and helping Stiles out.

He didn’t need help, not really, but it was obvious he was out of sorts. Confused and worried and not at all happy to be out in the open, head whipping around urgently and eyes flashing off and on like he couldn’t control his shift.

“You gonna be okay tonight?” Parrish asked, moving around the car to the sheriff with Stiles. “I can stick around if you need me to.”

“You have work in the morning.” The sheriff wrapped his arm around Stiles’ shoulders, pulling him in close. Derek saw him tense, but his son said nothing, so Derek didn’t, either. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Parrish nodded, told Stiles he was glad to see him back, then headed for his cruiser. He drove off with the other three watching after him, then Derek led the way to the house.

He wondered what Stiles would think once he realized Derek kind of owned the house. He didn’t know how much John had told him, but evidently enough that he didn’t seem surprised with the scent of Derek all over the house when they walked in.

Stiles looked around as if he’d never seen it before, fingers brushing lightly along the wall while he headed towards the kitchen, reacquainting himself with an area he’d grown up in. The sheriff followed right on his heels, but Derek just stood by the entrance with his hands in his pockets after locking the door, and hesitated before heading upstairs.

While he himself had never been feral, he was sure this was a bit overwhelming for Stiles, and he probably felt a little suffocated by the people who were hanging around him. Derek didn’t want to hover, even though he desperately wanted to crush him against his chest and insist he would never leave his side again. Stiles was dealing with enough without adding that to the mix.

Reaching the second floor, he headed to his room, but before stripping out of his clothes, he hesitated. He was dirty, and he didn’t want to climb into bed like this, but he didn’t really know what to do about the bathroom situation. Technically the hall bathroom was Stiles’, but since he’d been gone, it had turned into Derek’s.

He listened to what was going on downstairs, and it sounded like John was making Stiles some food so Derek figured he had time. He headed for the bathroom, stripped down, and showered as quickly as he could. He wrapped his towel around his waist when he exited and quickly brushed his teeth. Once he was done, he looked around to make sure none of Stiles’ things had been moved.

When he’d started using the bathroom, he’d only added a towel and toothbrush for himself, along with all the other items he needed, but everything else had remained mostly untouched. Barring the shampoo and soap in the shower, everything that belonged to Stiles was still there.

Exiting the bathroom, he almost walked into Stiles, stopping himself just short of him. Stiles tensed and took a step back. Derek noticed his hands clench into fists and rise slightly, as if he were about to raise them and move into a fighting stance, but he managed to stop himself before they got above stomach-level.

“Sorry,” Derek moved aside. “Wanted to grab a shower before heading to bed.”

“Me too,” Stiles said.

Which Derek found odd, because he could smell the soap on him, and he looked cleaner than he had that morning. Derek also knew the clothes he was wearing belonged to him, likely John grabbing them from Derek’s dresser upstairs since Stiles had been naked when he’d come back to himself.

He didn’t ask why Stiles wanted to shower again so soon, he just motioned the bathroom in an ‘all yours’ kind of way and headed for his room, shutting his door.

Dressing in loose sweats, he turned off his light and crawled into bed, staring up at the ceiling while he listened to the water hit tile in the bathroom. Stiles’ breathing was slow and even, but Derek could hear his heart pounding a mile a minute. It was rude to listen in like that, so he tried really hard to stop, but Stiles was _back_. It had been _three years_. Derek couldn’t even imagine how he must be feeling.

A part of him wondered how angry he was. Did he think they’d all stopped looking for him? That they’d stopped caring? Did he think they figured he was dead and had just tried to move on with their lives?

Even if he thought that, Derek would be the first to insist they hadn’t. None of them. Everyone had fallen apart when he’d gone missing, and he knew for certain that Malia and Peter had been out looking for him, even after all this time. Derek would’ve too, but John needed him. And as he kept reminding people, and himself, he could only worry about one Stilinski at a time.

The shower cut off almost twenty minutes later, and Derek couldn’t help but listen in. Stiles dried himself off, but when he stopped moving, Derek could hear his heartrate increase and his breathing beginning to go erratic. He winced, because Stiles was probably having terrible flashbacks. What had happened to him wasn’t going to go away overnight just because he’d escaped.

And Derek already knew people wanted him back. Stiles wasn’t going to be close to okay for a long time.

He climbed out of bed and opened his bedroom door as loudly as he could. It had the desired effect, because he heard Stiles’ heart stutter, and then begin to slow. His breathing was still ragged, but calming down.

Derek looked out into the corridor and saw the sheriff standing outside the bathroom door with his arms crossed. He glanced at Derek briefly, then faced the door once more. Derek’s eyes lowered to what was on the floor beside him and frowned.

“What’s that?”

“He asked me to nail his window shut,” the sheriff informed him. “It’s a good idea, and I’m not taking any chances with those Hunters.”

Derek winced, because he didn’t think Stiles knowing that Valeris knew where he was was a good thing, but he nodded and moved forward, bending down to grab the hammer and nails.

“I’ll do it,” he said softly, then moved past him to do just that.

He tried to work quickly, because he didn’t want to still be in Stiles’ space when he exited the bathroom. It was harder than it should have been, nailing a window shut, but he managed it as best he could, stepping back to survey his work. When he left the room, Stiles had just exited the bathroom, and he wondered if he’d been waiting for Derek to finish before emerging.

John moved forward to hug him tightly, and Derek saw Stiles tense. He hugged his father back, but he looked uncomfortable doing so, and Derek hated that. Stiles was really going to need to speak to someone about his experience, but not today.

The sheriff pulled back, one hand closing tightly around Stiles’ shoulder. “Nailed your window shut,” he said, as if Stiles hadn’t heard it himself. “You can stay with me tonight, if you want. Or I can stay in your room.”

“No,” Stiles said quickly. When hurt flashed across John’s face and his scent shifted, Stiles winced. “I—I’m not good at night. I don’t want to hurt you. I’ll be okay.”

Derek heard the lie, and he was sure the sheriff did, too. Neither of them called him on it and John just kissed the crown of his head and hugged him again.

“All right. Okay. I’ll be right down the hall, and Derek’s across from you. Just scream if you need us.”

Stiles shifted and John let him go, then followed him to his room. When Stiles walked into it, he looked around and Derek realized he could probably smell him all over the place. Derek entered the room more often than John did, and he was suddenly uncomfortable to realize Stiles was aware of just how much he’d been obsessing.

“Do you need anything?” John asked, clearly unwilling to let Stiles out of sight. “Anything at all?”

Stiles licked his lips, looking around. He glanced over at Derek, then away again quickly, eyes on the floor right at his father’s feet. For a long moment, he said nothing. He opened his mouth a few times, like he wanted to, but then snapped it shut again, looking frustrated and concerned.

Finally, he said, “Actually... I do.”

“Anything,” the sheriff said immediately.

Letting out a slow breath, Stiles glanced at Derek again, as if wishing he’d leave them, then stared at the ground once more. “Can you please surround my room with mountain ash?”

The hurt that lanced through Derek at those words was sharp and unexpected. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but cursed when he remembered Stiles was a Werewolf now. He knew he’d hit home with that comment, but before he opened his mouth to explain himself, the sheriff glanced at Derek briefly before speaking.

“You scared of something getting in?” he asked uncertainly, as if his brain had gone exactly where Derek’s had.

Stiles being scared of him.

It seemed to take a century for Stiles to respond, but he finally shook his head slowly, and said, “No. I’m scared of getting out.”

Derek frowned at that, he and the sheriff sharing a look, but they didn’t say anything. John just agreed, kissed Stiles’ forehead once, then headed downstairs to get the mountain ash.

Figuring he should leave him be, Derek started to turn to head back to his room, but Stiles said one word and he froze.

“Don’t.”

When Derek glanced back at him, Stiles wasn’t looking at him. He took it as the request it was and shifted back into place, staying with him, but didn’t enter the room. He stayed in the corridor, Stiles hanging out in his doorway, neither of them speaking.

It was hard not to dwell on his previous words, because why Stiles thought he was going to make a break for it, Derek didn’t know. Though something about what he’d said _did_  tickle the back of his brain. He felt like he should’ve been remembering something, but he couldn’t figure out what.

After a moment, Stiles left the doorway and Derek heard some drawers open and shut, Stiles evidently pulling out his pyjamas. It sounded like it took him a while to figure out where they were, like he’d been gone for more than just three years. Derek chalked it up to being overwhelmed.

When he returned to the doorway, the clothes were nowhere in sight, and Derek figured he’d dropped them down on his bed.

John returned moments later, walking into the room and slowly made a large circle. They had to pull his bed away from the wall so John could get all the way around, closing it off right outside the door so that Stiles could still open and close it.

Stiles couldn’t go to his desk or shelf, or anything else in his room right now, but this was a temporary thing. Derek figured the sheriff would do the baseboards in the morning, but it was late, and they were all emotionally and physically exhausted after a long day.

“Thanks,” Stiles said softly. “Can you lock my door?”

The sheriff shot a glance at Derek, but said, “Sure, kiddo.”

John didn’t move for a long while. It seemed to take a herculean effort for him to reach out and slowly pull it shut, reaching inside so he could push the pop-lock in. “I love you, Stiles.”

“Love you too, dad.”

The door shut. John let out a slow breath, rubbing his face and turning to Derek. “You hear _anything_  come near the house, you better let me know.”

“Nothing will come near the house,” Derek promised.

John moved past him, patting his shoulder and squeezing tightly, then disappeared into his room. He left his door ajar, like he thought closing it entirely would slow him down if he had to barrel down the corridor to his son. Derek couldn’t say he blamed him, a part of him wanted to just hang out outside Stiles’ door all night.

But he couldn’t do that. Stiles seemed out of sorts enough as it was, and he didn’t want to exacerbate the problem so he just turned and headed to his room, shutting the door and lying back down to stare at his ceiling.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Derek didn’t sleep that night. He tried, but every sound he heard had him jerk upright, listening hard to make sure it wasn’t someone coming for Stiles. John exited his room and went to check on Stiles at least eight times over the course of the night, constantly popping the lock to get his door open. Honestly, Derek was amazed it wasn’t more, but it clearly meant the sheriff wasn’t getting any sleep, either.

Stiles didn’t seem to be sleeping himself, but Derek tried not to focus on him too much. He just listened to the sounds around the house, making sure none of them were threatening.

Eventually, around six in the morning, the sheriff got up for good. Derek heard him check in on Stiles once more and then he headed downstairs to make some food. Derek could smell the eggs wafting up to the second floor.

He didn’t want to get up himself, but if he didn’t, he was just going to go crazy. He wanted to go to work, get some jobs done, not obsess over Stiles. He needed a distraction, and the shop was the best source he had.

So, Derek got up, getting dressed and pulling on his jacket before exiting the room. He went to the bathroom to relieve himself and brush his teeth, checking his hair, then left to head for the stairs.

Stiles’ door was open, the mountain ash line broken—likely John when he’d gone down to make food—and he saw the other man sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bed. He was wearing a light grey shirt and checkered sweats, likely the pyjamas he’d pulled out the night before.

His eyes shot up when Derek appeared in the doorway.

Crossing his arms, Derek eyed him critically, trying to see if any part of the old Stiles was in there. He knew what he’d gone through had changed him, but he hoped it hadn’t completely decimated who he used to be. He didn’t want Stiles to live the rest of his life scared, defensive and tense. He wanted him to be happy. Again, not something that would happen overnight, but he couldn’t help but feel like Stiles was miserable over the fact he was mostly human again.

He’d probably found it easier to cope with what he’d done while feral. Derek didn’t really blame him.

“Hey,” he offered. It was the first word he’d spoken to him since he’d left the loft, and it sounded so inadequate. “Did you sleep at all?”

Stiles shook his head, eyes still on Derek, fingers playing with what appeared to be a rolled up thread he’d pulled from his pants, the hem of his left leg loose. “No.”

Derek already knew that, not only because he’d listened in all night, but because John had asked him the same question before heading to make breakfast. It had been followed up with comments about how Stiles needed his sleep, had to keep up his strength. Derek didn’t lecture him. He couldn’t imagine what his head was like right now, sleep was probably the last thing Stiles wanted to do.

So he said nothing, and they just stared at one another.

One thing, at least, hadn’t changed. When they were silent for too long, Stiles shifted, as if uncomfortable with it. As if wishing Derek would leave, or say something. After a time, it seemed to be too much for him and he finally broke the silence.

“Dad says you lived here with him.” He paused, then frowned slightly. “Live here,” he amended, changing to the present tense.

Which was accurate, because Derek _did_  live here. He’d move back to the loft once Peter and Cora either left or found their own living arrangements in town. He was sure Peter had a place.

“Yeah,” Derek said, offering nothing further. He didn’t know how much Stiles wanted to speak to him, he just wasn’t ready to leave yet. So he didn’t push. He just answered what wasn’t technically a question.

Another silence, but this one was shorter, Stiles playing with the edge of his blanket, licking his lips, and then speaking, eyes on what his hand was doing instead of Derek.

“Melissa and Parrish said you moved in for dad. To keep an eye on him.”

Derek shrugged like it was no big deal. “Someone had to take care of him.”

Stiles nodded, and it looked like he wanted to say something. Maybe ‘thank you,’ or some form of agreement, but he didn’t. He just kept staring down at his hand tugging lightly at the edge of his comforter.

This silence lasted longer, and finally, Derek couldn’t handle it. He was the one who broke it this time.

“Stiles,” he said quietly, needing to tell him how sorry he was for leaving. For letting this happen to him. “Stiles, I—”

“No.” The harshness in Stiles’ voice was unexpected, and cut deep. He doubted Stiles knew what he was going to say, but evidently he was worried enough to not want to hear it. His eyes shot to Derek’s face, flashing blue briefly before he seemed to get them back under control and averted them once more.

Instead of pushing like he was sure Stiles expected him to, Derek said nothing. He just stood and waited for the tense set of Stiles’ shoulders to relax, then uncrossed his arms and glanced over his shoulder. It sounded like John was done with breakfast.

“I’m heading to work,” he informed Stiles, turning back to him. “I’ll let you and John eat together. I’ll be back later.”

Stiles said nothing, so Derek just nodded and turned, heading down the stairs as the sheriff exited the kitchen. He frowned when he saw Derek heading for the front door, but didn’t comment on it. Derek waved at him and left the house, walking down the porch steps and moving quickly to his car so he could get the hell out of there.

Most of the diners were closed, and he didn’t want to go to the McDonalds because it was out of the way, so he instead just headed over to Chuck’s, knowing the man would be awake.

Predictably, he was. Given he’d been covering for Derek, he was in the middle of finishing up making his breakfast when Derek knocked on his door. He didn’t seem surprised to see him when he opened it, and just motioned for him to help himself before taking a seat at his kitchen table.

Derek poured himself a coffee and grabbed a tortilla to make a breakfast burrito out of the eggs, sausages and mixed vegetables, then sat across from him to eat.

“You running away from something?” Chuck asked him.

“No.”

“Try harder next time, maybe I’ll believe you.” Chuck gave him a look but didn’t push.

Derek just ate his burrito in silence, the two of them lost in their own thoughts. When they were finished, Derek cleared the table and washed the dishes since Chuck didn’t own a dishwasher. He put the leftovers away, washed the pans, and then went back to the table so they could finish up their coffees before heading out.

“I just want to give him space,” Derek admitted after a comfortable silence. Chuck evidently knew he’d speak when he wanted to, and he smiled a little before taking a sip of his drink.

“Is that what you want, or what he wants?”

“I don’t know what he wants,” Derek said softly. “I just know if it were me, I wouldn’t want people crowding me. He went through a lot. The last thing he needs is people babying him and acting like he’s not okay.”

“You said he wasn’t okay,” Chuck pointed out.

“He’s _not_  okay,” Derek agreed. “But reminding him of that isn’t going to help him _be_  okay. It’s just going to make him feel like he never will be again.”

“Hm.” It was all Chuck said, then he drained his coffee and stood, walking past Derek to put the mug in the sink, filling it with water so the coffee didn’t stain his cup. “Should have a busy day today. ‘Course, it’ll be less busy if I stick around, but I can always just bark orders at the idiots if you wanted to take point.”

“It’s your garage,” Derek said.

“Actually, it’s yours, kid. Just because you haven’t earned it yet doesn’t mean it ain’t yours.” Chuck slapped him hard in the back, heading for the door. “Let’s get out there before Lloyd burns the place down.”

“That’d be pretty talented of him.”

“Don’t underestimate my nephew.”

Sometimes, Derek was jealous of Lloyd, because he had Chuck as an uncle. Chuck was rough around the edges, and he was loud and angry most of the time, but overall he was an amazingly kind person beneath all his snark. Sometimes, Derek thought the snark was just for show, because he’d never been anything but compassionate towards Derek.

And who did Derek have? Fucking Peter. Who’d murdered his sister, turned Scott, tried to murder Derek multiple times, and didn’t seem to stay dead when he was killed. Sure, Peter was the one who’d solved their last problem, but usually he was the reason the problem existed in the first place. Him bringing Stiles back to himself didn’t absolve him of all the past crimes he’d committed.

Besides, if not for Peter, Stiles wouldn’t have been in this mess at all. If Scott had stayed human, there wouldn’t have been anything Supernatural about the duo and then they probably would’ve gone on with life as normal.

Derek was glad when they reached the garage, because it meant he didn’t have to think anymore. Lloyd was livid when they walked in, because Alex had called in again—not sick, but because he’d gotten hammered the night before and was too hungover to come in. He and Jason always went drinking together, which meant it was only a matter of time before they got a call from Jason, too.

Which they did, about twenty minutes later. So Lloyd had to call Harry to ask him to come in on his day off, and Derek had to check their jobs for the day to see if they would be able to meet their deadlines for people’s pick-ups. Thankfully Chuck was sticking around so he could do paperwork and man the phone, even though he had no reason to even show up since Derek had come in.

Overall though, it was a good thing. It kept Derek busy, and his mind was focussed on the task at hand instead of obsessing about Stiles. He wondered what he was doing, if he was still with his dad or if he’d gone to see Scott. If the Pack was all at the house, talking and laughing and pretending Stiles hadn’t spent three years in hell. Pretending they didn’t notice how broken he was.

Or maybe they did notice and just didn’t care. Expected him to heal, to be back to his old self, to make like the last three years hadn’t happened.

He couldn’t blame them. More than anything, Derek wanted the old Stiles back, but he knew it wasn’t that simple. It wasn’t like they could just force him to be better. He wasn’t going to be for probably years.

Derek just hoped he stopped tensing when his dad hugged him. He was sure John noticed, but he wasn’t going to stop holding his son. Derek really hoped Stiles was okay with the hugs sooner rather than later.

It had been almost two hours since Derek had arrived at the shop, his upper body beneath a car and fiddling with the underside when footsteps approached and the entire garage went eerily silent. Derek didn’t really pay attention, because the guys always got like that when a pretty girl walked in—Derek imagined Lydia would qualify, though he couldn’t imagine why she’d be here.

When the silence stretched for longer than usual, Derek frowned, but Lloyd spoke before he’d moved to pull out from under the car.

“Boss? You got company.”

Derek _did_  push himself out from under the car, sitting up and turning to see who’d walked in.

He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. He hoped the shock wasn’t too evident on his face.

“Stiles.”

He was standing awkwardly by the large bay doors, hands in the pockets of his jeans. He was wearing clothes Derek always used to see him in: jeans, a graphic tee, oversized plaid shirt. He looked no different than he used to, except for the haunted look on his face, the lack of smile, and the clear discomfort he felt, shifting his weight from foot to foot, eyes skirting from each person in front of him to the next.

Finally, he settled his gaze on Derek, but he didn’t move forward. He seemed uncertain of his welcome.

Derek stood and motioned for him to follow, turning to give Chuck a look. That seemed to snap him out of his daze and he clapped his hands together, barking at the others to get back to work. Derek saw Stiles tense at the loud noise and the gruff voice, but he just hurried to follow after Derek and was led into the back room where Chuck’s Mustang was.

There were other rooms they could’ve used, but given the Mustang room was Derek’s new distraction, it seemed fitting to bring Stiles in there.

He moved across the car so it was between him and Stiles, hoping it would give him some comfort since he seemed uncertain around other Supernaturals, nevermind he and Derek were friends.

Or, used to be. Derek didn’t honestly know anymore.

He expected Stiles to keep the door open, but after a moment, he turned and shut it. It seemed to take a considerable effort, and Derek moved to lean against the back worktable, hands behind himself in an attempt to make Stiles feel more comfortable.

“What are you doing here?” Derek asked him. It wasn’t necessarily what he wanted to say to him, but he didn’t know what else to start with.

Stiles shrugged, looking at the car, but not moving any closer. “I made dad go to work. Parrish says he’s not been doing so well on that front.”

Derek made a face, but he didn’t blame Parrish for ratting the sheriff out. After all, he was dangerously close to losing his job, far as Derek knew, so it wasn’t a bad thing that Stiles had forced him to go to work.

“He didn’t want to leave me alone. I wouldn’t have let him, anyway. I can’t be alone right now,” Stiles continued, answering Derek’s original question. It looked like he wanted to say more, but after a moment, he clenched his jaw and seemed to change his mind on _what_ , exactly, he was going to say. He instead went with, “He was going to bring me to Scott’s. He probably thought that was what I wanted.” He shrugged, like it was a reasonable assumption to make.

Honestly, Derek thought it was reasonable, as well. Scott and Stiles had been inseparable for years. He knew they had a falling out, but they’d made up, and while things would never be as they were, he’d still always expected Stiles to race to Scott’s side long before coming to Derek’s.

“You told him no?” Derek asked when the silence stretched for too long.

Stiles shook his head, hands still in his pockets, shoulders tense. “Guess my face told him I wasn’t interested. Scott’s... intense. Since I got my head back on straight, he’s been...” Stiles trailed off and shook his head, then glanced over at Derek. “You make me feel... calm. You’re not throwing emotions at me.” He half-shrugged. “It’s easier around you. So he brought me here. For now.”

Derek figured he’d been right when he’d been thinking about this the night before. Stiles was overwhelmed, people were smothering him, and he just needed room to breathe. He needed some space to come to terms with everything. What he’d done, the fact that he was out, that he’d changed, that everyone had changed.

That he’d lost three years of his life. That he was never, ever getting that time back.

“You’re welcome to stay,” Derek offered softly. “If you want. I can take you somewhere else if you’d prefer, but I think it’ll be good for you. The guys are good people, and it’ll help you stay grounded to watch everyone interact without smothering you.”

The fact that Stiles had been dropped off proved he was intending to stay, but Derek wasn’t going to assume. He just wanted Stiles to do what he thought was best for himself. If he wanted to stay, then he could stay. If he’d prefer to leave, Derek wouldn’t stop him.

One of the guys out in the garage dropped what sounded like an axle shaft and Stiles whipped around, fists raised and snarl on his lips.

Derek made sure not to move, waiting for Stiles to recognize it wasn’t a danger to him. It took him a few seconds, but he eventually relaxed, and when he turned back to Derek, his expression was wrecked. Like he was embarrassed and ashamed to be that jumpy.

It was ridiculous of him to think that given where he’d been the past three years.

“It gets easier,” Derek promised. He didn’t know how to help Stiles with his trauma, but he could at least help him with one ting. “The noise, I mean. It takes time, but it gets easier. Scott figured it out, and we both know you’re smarter than him.” He offered Stiles a small smile, which he didn’t return. He just went back to looking haunted, gaze lowering to his hands, which he opened and closed slowly, watching his fingers move.

“I didn’t...” Stiles winced, closing his hands into fists before looking back up at Derek. “I’m not sure how to be _this_.”

Derek knew what ‘this’ meant, and he pushed away from the workbench, leaning forward on the car that separated them. “I know,” he whispered. “It’s okay. We’ll help you learn.”

“Everyone is acting like I should go back to how I was,” Stiles blurted out, shaking his head and raking one trembling hand through his hair, tugging harshly. “That I can just put it behind me. That I should be _okay_.” He glanced up at Derek. “Why don’t you think that?”

“Because I know you, Stiles.”

“Better than Scott?”

Derek smiled slightly once more, raising his eyebrows. “Are you surprised?”

Stiles seemed to think about it for a moment, then shook his head. “I guess not.”

They stood in silence for a moment. Stiles was inspecting every inch of Derek’s face, as if he’d never seen it before. Derek had to wonder if maybe he thought he was dreaming. Or if he thought he was dying and this was all just some elaborate hallucination.

He looked exhausted, deep shadows beneath his eyes, and pale. Derek hated seeing him like this, he just wanted to wrap him in a blanket and put him somewhere safe where no one could touch him ever again. Stiles hadn’t deserved what had happened to him. None of them deserved it, but Stiles least of all. He was a good person, a kind soul, someone who wanted to do the right thing and help people.

He’d given up his dream of escape, his job at the FBI, everything, just to come back and help Scott. Be close to his dad. Live a life he’d so desperately wanted to escape from. For others.

Derek knew that feeling. He’d also tried to escape, but something had dragged him back. That something was Stiles, and even if he never forgave him, Derek didn’t know if he’d ever get another opportunity.

“I shouldn’t have done it,” he said, voice low. He knew Stiles would hear it without any problems, given his new abilities. When Stiles frowned, not understanding, Derek clarified. “The ultimatum. Making you choose. It wasn’t fair. I shouldn’t have done it.”

“You wanted out,” Stiles said quietly. “I hated you for it, but I never blamed you. I just hated that I couldn’t have it, too.”

“I should’ve stayed.”

Stiles was silent for only a moment, then said, “I wish you had.”

“I’m sorry.”

He was fairly certain the only reason Stiles didn’t explode at him was because Derek was apologizing for leaving him behind like he did. Not because of what had happened to him. Derek was under the impression that was why Stiles had stopped him earlier that morning. He didn’t want people to apologize for what had happened to him. He just wanted them to help him.

Derek could do that. He would help him with everything he had.

“We should head back out there,” Derek said. “Lloyd’s probably grumbling about me slacking off.”

“He’s your boss?” Stiles asked, evidently thinking Lloyd was Chuck.

“No, I’m his.” He saw the confusion and just smiled. “It’s a long story. I can tell you about it when we’re out there.”

Stiles hesitated, then nodded and slowly opened the door. He stepped out, but didn’t move far. Derek inched his way around the Mustang and followed him out, heading back for the vehicle he’d been working on after shutting the door. He was about to tell Stiles to take a seat wherever he wanted, but Chuck approached them then, eying Stiles with interest.

“You stickin’ around, kid?”

At least having someone younger than Derek in the place meant Chuck would call someone _else_  kid. That was encouraging, maybe Derek could upgrade to ‘Hale’ or something.

Stiles looked a little taken aback, glancing at Derek, then saying, “Uh, I was going to.”

“Good. I got a job for you. Something even a moron could do, but Derek’s busy so you’ll have to do.”

Derek watched to make sure he wasn’t leading him out of the garage, but Chuck just wandered over to one of the work benches and grumped at him to organize all the tools. Then he turned and went back to the office when the phone rang, bitching about people never giving him a break and how he was too old for this bullshit.

Lloyd and Harry were dutifully working on their own cars, occasionally tossing banter at one another, including Derek whenever they felt like they needed a third person to make the conversation more interesting.

Derek was back under the car by then, but he kept an ear on Stiles, listening to him sort through all the tools and organizing the work bench. It was literally the most annoying task in the world, but it was keeping him busy, and Chuck probably wanted him to be able to focus on something other than his own thoughts.

When noon rolled around, Alex actually showed up, still miserable and sporting a headache, but he showed up. He eyed Stiles with interest, but said nothing, evidently having been warned ahead of time. When he settled in on a car, Derek checked the time and figured he should grab a bite to eat. He knew Stiles was probably starving, so he poked his head into the office to tell Chuck he was going out for a bit, then went to collect Stiles.

He’d been taking his time organizing the workbench, and when Derek approached, he saw that he was actually separating out a whole bunch of parts that had been mixed together. It wasn’t something Chuck had told him to do, but he’d obviously found it cathartic.

“Gonna grab a bite. You can stay here with the guys or come with me, whichever you prefer.”

Stiles hesitated, but Derek recognized it wasn’t about going or staying. When he spoke, it made Derek’s stomach clench. “I could eat. If that’s okay with you.”

He was almost asking for permission to eat, and Derek was so, so glad Valeris wasn’t here, because he’d have ripped his face off.

It certainly explained why his feral mind had been so hesitant the first day, thinking the food was a test or poisoned. Derek was going to force that out of his system as soon as possible.

“Let’s get some food in you,” Derek said in response, and led the way out.

They walked to the diner down the street, a few people giving them double-takes with their mouths hanging open. Evidently news of Stiles’ return hadn’t spread yet, but it soon would. He just hoped people didn’t crowd him, but so far nobody approached.

Once in the diner, Derek texted the sheriff since it was close to the station, and he and Stiles perused the menu. They still hadn’t ordered when John walked in, beaming at them and hurrying to join them, sitting beside his son and wrapping an arm around him.

Stiles still tensed, but he at least managed a small, albeit forced, smile.

It hurt Derek to see him like this. Because it wasn’t like Stiles to be this closed off. It was like he was policing his emotions, being sure to keep everything in check. Most of the time, Derek had no idea what he was thinking, or how he was feeling, because he was just so good at locking everything down.

They ordered and ate while chatting, Stiles having hesitated before requesting his food, like he was worried he’d get punished before remembering he was with his father and friend. John did most of the talking, with Derek helping him hold the conversation since Stiles only piped up every now and then. He ate like a man who’d clearly been starved, because he seemed to hesitate whenever he was halfway through his meal, as if thinking he should be saving the rest for later.

Just in case.

Derek and the sheriff both caught on and started making plans for dinner, and Derek even ordered two more burgers to go so he and Stiles could have something to eat in a few hours. Not that Lloyd didn’t always have snacks lying around, but Derek doubted Stiles would help himself to them.

When they were done, the sheriff drove them back to the garage, mostly to spend more time with Stiles, and then left to head back to work. Stiles stayed with Derek the rest of the afternoon until John was off shift. He came to pick him up, told Derek he better be home for dinner, and then left.

Chuck made Derek head out around six, even though he usually hung around much longer than that. He was just parking on the road when he got a text from John asking if he was heading home soon since dinner was just about ready.

Derek scowled when he saw Scott’s bike in the driveway beside the still-covered Jeep, but forced himself not to be too bitter about it. Scott was Stiles’ best friend, and it wouldn’t be fair to keep him away.

When he entered the house, he heard a loud clatter in the kitchen. He didn’t think much of it until he walked into the room and saw both John and Scott staring at Stiles, who’d stood from his chair violently enough to have it skid backwards and hit the wall.

He was staring right at Derek, and it took a few seconds for him to calm down. Derek just stared back, waiting for him to get himself back under control before moving forward to join John at the stove. He acted like Stiles’ reaction was perfectly normal, because Stiles didn’t need people constantly reminding him he wasn’t okay.

He’d probably been startled when Derek had entered the house and reacted badly. Scott and John should’ve expected it and pretended it was fine instead of staring at him like they pitied him.

Reaching John, he slapped a hand on his shoulder to get his attention, forcing his gaze away from his son, and looked at the food on the stove.

“What can I help with?”

“Nothing here, but you can check on the steaks. They’re out on the barbecue.”

“Sure.”

Derek headed for the back door, and heard footsteps follow. He didn’t turn to see who it was, he already knew.

Reaching the barbecue, he raised the lid and grabbed the tongs on the side, moving the meat around slightly to make sure it wasn’t sticking. Stiles stood a little to his left. Close enough he could reach out and touch him, but far enough that he had time to jerk away if Derek made a grab for him.

“You know your dad shouldn’t be eating steak,” Derek said.

“I figured I’d let him just for today,” Stiles responded.

“As long as it’s just today.”

Stiles said nothing, just watched Derek work. It was weird, having Stiles be outside with him instead of inside with Scott. He understood why, it was still weird though. He could also tell Stiles wanted to say something, but he was holding himself back.

Derek really needed to at least help him get his voice back, he just didn’t know how. Stiles had always mouthed off at the wrong people. Evidently being held for three years had broken him of that habit.

“Awfully quiet,” Derek said, flipping one of the steaks. “Never knew how much I hated the quiet until after the noise went away.”

It had the desired effect, Stiles shifting a bit closer. “Is your boss going to mind if I come by again tomorrow?”

“I’m the boss, remember?” Derek said, checking another hunk of meat. “And it’s fine, if that’s what you want to do. Jason and Alex should both be in tomorrow, so you’ll have to tolerate their bullshit, but if you can do that, then you’re welcome.”

He heard a chair creak inside, Scott shifting, clearly unhappy. He wasn’t subtle, because Stiles’ head turned to the door, then back to Derek. He said nothing, so Derek didn’t comment on it, either. Scott was evidently hurt he wasn’t Stiles’ first choice.

Given the level of ‘worry, worry, fear, angst, angst, happy, happy, worry, angst’ coming off him, Derek couldn’t really blame Stiles for wanting someone else. Derek’s general baseline was always just content, so it was probably easier on Stiles’ still unfamiliar senses. They’d have to work on getting him trained up sooner rather than later.

When the steaks were done, Derek set them down on a plate that had been left out for them and headed back inside. The sheriff was in the process of putting a dish of rice on the table, and Derek saw it was set for five people. Melissa’s arrival a few minutes later and explained the fifth setting.

They spoke about work while they ate, Stiles mostly silent while he poked at his food before eating it, as if afraid he would get in trouble for doing so. They really needed him to talk to someone, Derek just wasn’t sure how they were going to succeed with that.

He had someone in mind, but he lived abroad and wasn’t someone Stiles knew. In a way, the unfamiliar person might help, but similarly, Derek didn’t know if he wanted to introduce a new Supernatural being to him when he was still teetering on the edge, even if the Supernatural happened to be the healing sort.

Scott hung around for a while after dinner, Melissa heading home to get some sleep. He actually offered to watch _Star Wars_ with Stiles, but that seemed to hurt him more than anything, because they all knew Scott would never willingly watch those movies. He was just proving to Stiles that he thought he was fragile and needed coddling.

Stiles was anything but fragile. He was a fighter, a death machine, an undefeated champion.

He was just broken, that was all. Very different from being fragile. His sanity seemed to be hanging on by a thread, and Scott wasn’t helping.

Derek went to shower and retired early, exhausted from the emotional day the night before and his lack of sleep. He passed out almost immediately, waking up around two to use the bathroom. He could tell Stiles was still awake, but he didn’t want to bother him, so he just headed back for his room, realizing he hadn’t set his alarm. Doing that, he went back to sleep for a few hours, climbing out of bed at half past six to get ready for work.

The sheriff was up again, having just broken the mountain ash line to Stiles’ bedroom before heading downstairs in his uniform. Stiles was dressed and ready to face the day, though he looked worse than he had the day before.

The bruises beneath his eyes were more pronounced, and Derek was willing to bet he hadn’t slept at all the night before. He’d fix that when they got to work, but for now, he just went to the kitchen and saw the sheriff perusing the fridge.

“I can grab food on the way to work,” Derek said, since it looked like they were low on eggs.

“I’ll get some groceries when I head home this afternoon,” the sheriff said, smiling brightly when Stiles walked into the kitchen, having brushed his teeth and combed his hair. “Hey son. Breakfast?”

“I’m heading out with Derek.”

John seemed surprised, and a little hurt, but he rallied quickly, evidently only wanting what was best for Stiles. “Sure thing, kiddo. Any requests for dinner?”

Stiles was silent for much too long, and Derek could feel his anxiety mounting, so he cut in and told the sheriff they should have tacos, being very clear that John should be getting the tofu ‘meat’ and that they would all eat it in solidarity. He grumbled unhappily, but obliged.

Derek and Stiles headed out, and instead of going to the shop, he stopped at Chuck’s for breakfast again. He didn’t usually do this, maybe only about twice a month, but Chuck had been really good for Stiles the day before.

Someone he didn’t know. Someone who had no idea what Stiles was supposed to be like, and just treated him like anyone else. Didn’t look at him like he was pitying him.

When he knocked, Chuck opened the door, grunted, and waved them into the house. He’d made some kind of breakfast hash today with scrambled eggs, so Derek grabbed himself a plate, then motioned for Stiles to help himself.

Stiles sat down with the barest amount of food on his plate. Chuck paused in his chewing, cocked an eyebrow at Derek, then stood up and grabbed Stiles’ plate. Stiles looked crestfallen, but Chuck just went back to the stove, loaded it up with more food, and dropped it in front of him again before digging back into his own breakfast.

“You’re not gonna last the day around those fuckheads without food in your stomach, kid,” Chuck grunted, jerking his head at Derek. “Especially that one. Fucking pain in my ass.”

“Love you too, Chuck.”

“Shut up.”

Derek just smiled to himself and ate his food.

* * *

It turned into a bit of a routine for Derek and Stiles. When his dad worked, Stiles would go to the garage with Derek. If his dad was home, he would stay back with him. They ate at Chuck’s in the morning whenever they were together, and if Stiles wasn’t with him, Derek lasted at the garage on Lloyd’s snacks until the diner opened down the street.

Stiles still wasn’t sleeping. It was turning into a problem, one that John was getting increasingly distressed about. Eventually, Chuck was the one who ordered him into the back seat of the Mustang and told him to sleep before he made his slumber permanent. While probably not the best choice of words for someone who’d endured what Stiles had, it was increasingly clear to Derek that Stiles relished Chuck’s tough love, because he really was treating him like anyone else. He wasn’t coddling him, or suffocating him, or acting like Stiles was about to break into a thousand pieces. He spoke to Stiles the same way he spoke to Derek, or Lloyd, or any of the other guys.

It actually reminded Derek of how Chuck had started warming up to him. Derek had been just as lost and broken over Stiles’ disappearance when he’d first started working there, and Chuck had brought him back from the brink of depression over and over just by being there without forcing himself on him emotionally. He was just _there_ , a pillar of strength to lean against, and he always said the right thing.

The Pack started dropping in after the first week. Most of them had been keeping their distance barring Scott and Parrish, the latter moreso coming by for Derek and the sheriff’s sake, but after one week passed, they all seemed like they wanted to spend time with him.

Lydia was the first to show up at the garage, and Jason dropped something heavy on his foot at the sight of her. She ignored him completely and went straight to Stiles’ side where he was helping Chuck with filing.

Derek didn’t listen in while they spoke, but he was at least thankful it sounded like it was going well. Lydia ended up joining them for lunch, and left afterwards. Once it became clear Stiles was okay with people so long as it was one at a time, the Pack seemed to rotate. After Lydia’s departure, they were left alone in the garage for an hour before Malia showed up.

Stiles seemed less comfortable with her than he had Lydia, but he didn’t tell her to leave. They chatted until the sheriff showed up to take him home. Then that turned into the new routine.

Every time Stiles came to the garage, the first few hours were spent with him napping in the Mustang in the other room. No one bothered him, and no one said anything whenever they heard him wake up screaming. Derek had wanted to go check on him the first time, but Chuck insisted it would only make him more uncomfortable to know they heard him. Derek had disagreed at first, but it became clear he was right when Stiles exited the back looking and smelling better than he had when he’d walked in.

For now, Derek trusted Chuck, because he seemed to know what he was doing.

One of the days Stiles wasn’t around, Derek and Lloyd went to grab lunch, and he asked him why Chuck was so good with people who were broken. Like him, like Stiles.

“Because uncle Chuck’s been broken long as I’ve known him,” Lloyd said, sticking a fry into his mouth and chewing while picking up another. “You tend to know what broken people need when you’ve learned how to fix yourself from experience.”

Derek didn’t ask again, and he never brought it up with Chuck. It wasn’t any of his business, but he had to wonder what had broken the man and how he’d fixed himself. He wondered if Derek himself was being fixed just by being in his presence. He was really helping Stiles, but more than that, he was teaching _Derek_  how to help Stiles.

He already wasn’t coddling him, which he knew was helping, but Chuck’s blatant disregard for anything about Stiles’ experience and his clear indication that he didn’t want to know about it made Stiles so much more relaxed when he was in the garage over what he was like at home and around the others.

The only person he seemed remotely comfortable around was Derek, and that was mostly because he was taking his cues from Chuck.

It was weird to realize a human was helping a Werewolf like this, but Derek figured it made sense. Stiles had been human when he’d helped Scott, so it was only fitting another human would help him as a Werewolf.

Humans were amazing. Derek deeply regretted that Stiles wasn’t one anymore, but only for Stiles’ sake. He hated that Stiles had been turned into something he’d never wanted to be.

It was halfway through week two, when Derek was heading upstairs to grab a shower before bed, that Stiles caught up to him.

“Derek, can we talk?”

“Sure.” He half-turned on the steps. “What’s up?”

Stiles motioned for them to finish their ascent and they both stopped at the top of the landing, Derek putting some space between them since Stiles was still tense and uncomfortable around Supernaturals. The only one he didn’t shy away from was Lydia, but they had a strong bond, so he wasn’t surprised.

It definitely wasn’t because Lydia wasn’t dangerous, because Derek could say from experience that she was.

“What’s up?” he asked again.

“Dad has the next three days off,” Stiles said, crossing his arms defensively and shifting his weight. “I can’t come to the shop, I don’t want to hurt him.”

“That’s okay, I understand.” And Derek did. Stiles spent more time with him than his own father, and he was more than okay for them to start mending that bridge. He also hoped Stiles would open up about what had happened to him, since he still hadn’t. Whenever anyone tried bringing it up, Stiles clammed up and his face turned red, like he was struggling not to lose it on them.

They understood his reluctance, but he needed to talk to _someone_ , and Derek figured his dad would be it.

“I have a problem.”

Derek waited, but when Stiles didn’t elaborate, he said, “What can I do?”

He felt like he hadn’t said the right thing, because Stiles stayed silent for much too long. Digging deep, and trying to remember how things used to be between them, back when they’d been friends, but still assholes to each other, he crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows.

“You gonna tell me? Or do I have to guess?”

He was really starting to understand why he and Stiles had always been so good for one another, and why Chuck’s tough love was working. Because this was what Stiles was used to, especially from Derek. This is what he reacted to, what he pushed the boundaries of. Tough love.

It was probably why they’d almost... well, that was in the past. Nothing he was going to dredge up right now, not with Stiles like this.

“I can’t nap in the Mustang,” he said, like it pained him to admit. “And I can’t sleep at night. In my bed. I just—I can’t do it.”

“Is it the bed?” Derek asked uncertainly. “Or your room?”

“It’s just...” Stiles raked a frustrated hand through his hair, trailing off. “I just can’t. I don’t want to be alone. But I can’t stay with dad, I’m... I get violent if I’m startled awake. I don’t want to hurt him.”

Derek took that exactly for what it meant. It wasn’t that he wanted to hurt Derek, it was that Derek healed much faster than the sheriff did.

“My bed is bigger,” he said. “We can nail the window shut, and your dad can do another mountain ash barrier.”

He hadn’t realized how tense Stiles was until those words made him relax. He nodded, licking his lips, said he’d go and get his dad to do that, then turned to head back downstairs.

It wasn’t much, but it was a start. It was Stiles okay admitting what he wanted, or needed. He hadn’t done that at all since his return, so any progress was good progress in Derek’s book.

He went to take a shower, like he’d been planning, and when he exited the bathroom he found Stiles helping John move the furniture in his room so he could make the barrier. Derek sent Stiles off to shower and finished up with the sheriff. They both got to work nailing the window shut, and while it was obvious John was still worried about his son, he at least seemed a little more hopeful than he had even an hour ago.

When Stiles was showered and ready for bed, he and Derek waited for John to close the barrier and shut the door, Stiles clutching his pillow to his chest like a child. Derek didn’t have a lock on his door, so they had to settle with the mountain ash barrier being on the inside of it.

Derek got the light, but instantly turned it back on at the sharp exhale from Stiles. It was a weird reaction, seeing as Stiles could see in the dark as a Werewolf, but Derek didn’t question it and just headed for the bed. The light wasn’t that bright anyway, he wouldn’t be bothered by it if they had to sleep with it on.

He honestly hadn’t noticed that Stiles hadn’t turned his light off in his own room before, but he’d been trying hard not to pry.

Pulling back the covers and yanking his pillow to one side of the bed instead of the centre, Derek motioned for Stiles to join him. Stiles set his pillow down as well and climbed beneath the blankets, but he was stiff and clearly uncomfortable.

Derek just fell down beside him, figuring reacting to it would only make things worse. He yanked the covers up, told Stiles to kick at him if he hogged them, and then rolled onto his side so he could try and get some sleep.

It definitely didn’t work, because he couldn’t stop thinking about Stiles behind him, lying motionless on his back like he was afraid to move. He wasn’t going to get any sleep if he just lay there like a statue.

Against his better judgement, he said, “What are you so afraid of?”

He heard more than felt Stiles move behind him, probably only turning his head to look over at him. For a long moment, he said nothing, and Derek was ready to just give up and try and pretend he wasn’t there, in case that would help the other man sleep, but eventually, Stiles answered.

“He always came at night,” Stiles said quietly. “When I let my guard down. When I least expected it. He always came to the basement and made sure I was always alert. An alert fighter is a winning fighter, and The Master wouldn’t tolerate anything but the best.”

Derek couldn’t help but roll onto his back, staring openly at Stiles, heart slamming in his ribs at the words.

The Master? The _Master_?!

Oh God. Oh Jesus fucking _Christ_ , _no_!

Derek could barely get the words out, but he somehow managed, “Did he...?”

Stiles gave him a sharp look. “I was a pet. Doing that with me would be like fucking your dog. So no, nothing like that.” He seemed to regret his slipup, but Derek had to wonder how harshly he’d been punished every time he refused to call him by his title.

He hated that this Werewolf beside him was so different to the goofy, talkative, intelligent boy he’d known for years.

“He would come and hurt you?” Derek asked.

“He would bring monsters,” Stiles said quietly, gaze shifting to the ceiling. “He and his family would hunt, and if they found something worth bringing home, they would leave it with me in the basement while I was sleeping. If I didn’t wake up fast enough, I got hurt.”

“Didn’t they ever worry you would die?” Derek would’ve thought Stiles was too good of an investment to risk him being hurt like that.

“At first I think The Master just wanted to make sure I was worth the money he’d paid. After that, he expected me to win. I always did, but it made sleep dangerous. The only reason I can do it in the Mustang is because I’m locked in a car in a room in a garage. It would take a lot to get to me there. And it would be loud.” He shrugged one shoulder, still staring anywhere but at Derek. “Once I turned into a Werewolf, it was easier to know when something was coming for me. And when I turned feral, I didn’t care. Sleep came easier when my voice wasn’t so loud in my head.”

“I wasn’t going to leave you like that,” Derek said. “I don’t regret pulling you back.”

“I wish you hadn’t.”

“I know, but losing yourself to the wolf wasn’t going to help you in the long run. Your dad needs you. Scott needs you.”

“Let me guess, _you_  need me, too?” Stiles asked dryly, turning his head to look at him again.

“No,” Derek said. “I don’t need you.”

Stiles clearly wasn’t expecting that because he just stared at him like he had no idea what to say. He almost looked hurt, and half-angry, but Derek let him stew in his own emotions for a while before he continued, if only because having Stiles actually feel something other than fear and anxiety for once was a good thing.

“Need is a very specific thing. Your dad needs you, because he doesn’t know how to function without you. He needs you to be there to watch what he eats, and he needs you to stay close to him so he knows he hasn’t lost everyone he cares about. He needs you like a dying man needs one more breath. He’s desperate for it.  
“Scott needs you, too. He needs you to keep him out of trouble. He needs you to challenge him, to keep him in line, to keep the Pack together. He needs you to be the voice of reason, to make the plans, to know when to fight and when to turn tail and run. Scott needs you like an Alpha needs a second, because he doesn’t know how to do this without you. He doesn’t know how to exist without you in his orbit, because you’ve never not _been_  in his orbit before.  
“But me? I don’t need you. At all. Because I survived before you, and I survived after you. I can manage without you in my life, but the difference is I won’t. Because I _want_  you. I _want_  you to be in my life. I want you in my space, arguing with me, annoying me, being infuriatingly right all the time. I want you to be a part of my future, whether it’s as a coworker at the garage, as a Packmate to this broken Pack that I don’t even know can be salvaged, as a friend, as a brother, I don’t care. All I know is that want and need are two different things, and just because I don’t need you doesn’t mean I don’t _want_  you.”

Stiles stared at him like he had no idea what to say. He opened his mouth a few times, but ended up closing it, struggling to get words out. It looked like Derek had destroyed him, and he wasn’t sorry, because the best way to fix something that was broken was to shatter it and let it rebuild itself.

Stiles was strong. He was the strongest person Derek had ever met. And he knew that no matter what, he would come back from this. It would take time, and energy, and he would hate every fucking second of it, because it would hurt, and it would be hard, but he would do it.

“I can’t be who I was,” Stiles insisted, swallowing hard.

“No,” Derek agreed. “You can’t. Because you’re not him anymore. But that doesn’t mean that you can’t be yourself. Shit happens, Stiles. And I know that when you were nine years old, you probably thought you could never be who you were before then.”

He didn’t have to say “when your mother died” because Stiles already knew that he was referring to that time of his life.

“You thought you couldn’t ever heal from that. That you were broken, and you would always be broken. But you did. You healed, you rebuilt yourself from the ground up. The Stiles I met back in those woods wasn’t the same Stiles who was eight years old, because he changed when he turned nine, but he was still _you_. You fixed yourself once, and you can do it again.”

“This is different.”

“Why?”

“You saw what I did,” Stiles insisted, sitting up and turning to him fully. “The videos. I was feral, but I remember. You watched one of them, and then you left, but I know you watched them all. I know you saw all the things I did, the people I hurt, the ones I _killed_. How am I supposed to come back from that?”

“With a lot of pain and hard work.” Derek wasn’t going to sugarcoat it, because he knew it wasn’t going to be easy. It had taken him years to come to terms with what he’d done. To Paige, to his family, to his dead Betas. It was hard, and it hurt, but if he could do it, so could Stiles.

“I can’t.”

“If you ever say that to me again, you’ll regret it,” Derek said darkly, slowly sitting up. He saw Stiles tense, his eyes slowly bleeding blue, but Derek didn’t let that deter him. “We spent three years thinking the worst. Three years believing you were dead, worried out of our minds, falling apart at the seams. Your dad turned into a drunkard, the Pack splintered and fell apart, I lost the _one person_ in my life that I truly cared about. And we have you back now. You found your way back here, feral, out of your mind, but you still _came_. You came back to us. So don’t you dare sit there and tell me you _can’t_  because I will never let you give up on yourself. You did what you had to do to _survive_ , Stiles. If I could’ve taken your place, I would have. But you, and every other Supernatural in that ring with you, did what they had to do. None of you are at fault. Every single one of you is a victim, and if you don’t understand that, I’m going to have to repeat it to you over and over until you finally believe it. Nothing about what happened to you was okay, but the part that is the most unforgivable is that you think it was _your fault_. It wasn’t, Stiles. It was _not_  your fault. And if Valeris shows his face here ever again, he is _never_  going to leave.”

Stiles didn’t seem to know what to do, or say. He just sat there, staring at Derek, and looking lost. Like he wanted to argue, but didn’t know how. Like he wanted to believe Derek, but truly _didn’t_. Like he wished he’d stayed feral, or he’d stayed locked in a basement with a cruel man he called The Master upstairs.

Because anything was easier than forgiving himself, and Derek knew that more than anyone else. He knew how hard it was to hurt someone without meaning to, and while he knew that Stiles had killed someone in self-defence before, it was different than what he’d done in the matches.

Inching forward on the bed slowly, Derek reached out one hand, eyes locked on Stiles’ still-blue ones. He reached slowly for the back of Stiles’ neck, and pulled him closer, pressing their foreheads together.

“We are not going to let you go, Stiles. You’re stuck with us until the end, so you’re going to have to recognize that no matter what, we’re going to bully you into forgiving yourself. How you want to do that is up to you, but you _will_  find a way to fix yourself, because you’re the strongest person I know. And you’re also the most stubborn person I know. So we’re going to lie down, and you’re going to close your eyes and sleep, knowing the most dangerous thing in this room with you is _me_ , and I would rather die than lay a hand on you. Understand?”

For a few seconds, Stiles didn’t move. Then, he finally nodded, and Derek squeezed the back of his neck lightly.

Tough love. But he meant every word.

Derek released him and lay back down. Stiles took a moment to collect himself, but his eyes eventually turned hazel once more and he lay down beside Derek, pulling the covers up over himself. He twisted onto his side, facing Derek, and while Derek didn’t like sleeping on his left side, he turned that way anyway so they were almost nose to nose.

“Go to sleep, Stiles.”

“If I do, and you’re gone when I wake up, I’ll never forgive you.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Derek promised.

Derek was the first one to close his eyes, and while it took a long time for him to fall asleep, he felt Stiles inch a bit closer an hour later before his breathing evened out.

It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

* * *

Things were going surprisingly well by the third week. Stiles had nightmares, but he still slept with Derek in his room so while he flailed and injured him a lot, it wasn’t anything Derek couldn’t handle. Though the first nightmare had definitely been a challenge, since Stiles had wolfed out and ended up on top of Derek trying to rip his throat out.

Derek didn’t hold it against him. Stiles had obviously woken after his nightmare, recognized a Supernatural was _right there_ , and proceeded to try and protect himself. They didn’t talk about it the next morning, but Derek also didn’t let him angst about it, asking if he was coming to the shop with him.

By the Friday of the third week, it was clear Stiles really needed some help with his Werewolf side. Whenever he got startled at the shop, he always wolfed out. Thankfully he usually had his back to the rest of the guys, but it was only a matter of time before someone noticed.

Stiles told Derek he needed someone to train him, but that he couldn’t continuously rely on Derek for everything. That made sense, and he’d told him to do what he needed to do. Stiles had made a call out of earshot with Derek’s phone, and told him he was starting in the morning so he wouldn’t be going to the shop with him.

That was a good thing, because Stiles would start to feel more comfortable with himself once he got his Werewolf problem under control. The biggest surprise came when Derek was speaking to Scott about it later, wanting to give him some tips on things to bear in mind, only for Scott to ask him what the hell he was talking about.

Derek had no idea what to say, and had ended up hanging up on him, because there were only so many people he could’ve gone to for advice. His second call was Deaton, but he also advised he wasn’t the one Stiles had sought out.

The call he’d made wasn’t showing up in Derek’s history, like he’d deleted it, so it wasn’t until the following morning when Stiles’ ride came to pick him up that he realized who it was.

And the sheriff was _not_  happy.

“Good morning. My, something smells delightful. Bacon?” Peter smiled at them jovially and Derek had to refrain from punching him in the mouth.

“What are you doing here?”

“Coming to fetch my student.” Peter looked entirely too pleased.

Derek turned on his heel and went up the stairs. He knew that Peter would hear him, but he had to know if Stiles was out of his mind. Peter? _Peter_?!

He walked into Stiles’ room while he was pulling his shoes on. He was resolutely not looking at Derek, likely because he knew he did _not_  approve.

“Peter?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, grabbing for his other shoe.

“Are you insane?” Derek asked, unable to stop himself. Given Stiles had literally been insane not long ago, it probably wasn’t the best choice of words, but Stiles didn’t seem to care about that.

“Who else do you recommend?” Stiles demanded, standing once his second shoe was on. “I can’t rely on you for _everything_ , I already do too much. I can’t do this with Scott, he’s always looking at me like I’m going to break. Liam’s too green, he would make a terrible teacher. Malia’s too aggressive, I’ll lose control and attack her. I haven’t seen Isaac in years, we barely know each other at this point, I don’t think it would be safe for either of us to have him train me. Jackson would have me punching him within minutes, and he’s protective of Ethan so I wouldn’t have a chance to get trained without being attacked by Jackson if I were to make a wrong move towards Ethan.” Stiles threw his hands up in defeat, the action so much like his old self that it momentarily derailed Derek’s anger. “I’m kind of out of options.”

“Cora?” Derek demanded.

“I asked her,” Stiles admitted. “She said no.”

“What?”

“She was held captive for a time, too. She knows what it’s like to lose control. She didn’t think she would be a good teacher. I literally had Peter, or you, and I can’t always rely on you. You’re doing a good job of hiding it, because you’re the Fort Knox of emotions, but I know this hasn’t been easy for you. I’m just—trying to stand on my own two feet. Heal, just like you wanted. If Peter has to be the one to teach me, then I guess that’s how it’s gonna be.”

Derek kind of hated that Stiles was using his words against him, but he couldn’t say he blamed him. It _was_  what Derek wanted, just... not with Peter. But he wasn’t going to make the decision for Stiles, so if he wanted Peter, then Derek would grit his teeth and accept it.

The two of them left the house just before Derek did, and he spent a majority of his time at the shop worrying about them. What if Peter triggered him? What if Stiles lost control? What if Peter had an ulterior motive? What if, what if, what if?

It was almost a relief when he got a text around three from the sheriff saying Stiles was back. Derek wanted to rush home and check on him, but he fought the urge, because that would be coddling and overbearing, so he just told John he was glad he’d survived the day with Peter and that he’d be home for dinner.

They had pasta that night, that Stiles himself made. He seemed particularly proud, and Derek realized that, slowly but surely, ever since their conversation in Derek’s bedroom, Stiles was trying. He still reacted badly to loud noises, he still had nightmares, he still didn’t like being alone, but he was trying. Hopefully he’d be okay around the Pack again soon, as a group, since he could tell they were all getting a little anxious about it.

None of them had left again, but he knew most of them wanted things to go back to normal. Lydia had already mentioned in the group chat that she was looking for a place to rent in Beacon Hills since she could _not_  live with her parents again, which suggested she was moving back.

Liam and Mason both had a year of school left, but were talking about taking a year off. Cora had asked him if she could move back and live in the loft if he ended up staying at the Stilinski’s indefinitely. Malia and Peter were already acting like they’d never left.

Isaac was a bit more hesitant, wanting to stay, but having too many bad memories. Derek didn’t blame him if he wanted to leave, but so far he didn’t really give any indication either way whether or not he was staying or going.

Kira was still a bit on the fence, and Derek knew that as much as she wanted to stay for Stiles, she was probably going to leave again. It was too hard to stay, and her family didn’t live there anymore. Jackson and Ethan both had lives back in England, and would probably be heading back once things calmed down, but surprisingly, Jackson seemed to want Stiles to be okay before they left.

As much as they’d been enemies in high school, Derek really felt like Jackson cared a lot about Stiles and Scott. The two of them and Lydia had been his first Pack, and Stiles and Scott had worked tirelessly to save him from being killed back when he was the Kanima. He might never tell them how much he cared about them, but his presence meant he truly did.

Derek felt a little better about how things were going when he went to bed that night. Stiles always laid motionless beside him for the first hour, but eventually inched closer and fell asleep against Derek. He wished he’d just do it as soon as he got into bed, but baby steps. Stiles needed to move at his own pace, so Derek let him. He knew it was just about having another person close, feeling safe with someone beside him and not having to worry about hurting them.

Honestly, Derek sometimes felt guilty that it wasn’t the sheriff, because he cared _so much_ about his son, that it would’ve helped them both heal a great deal if Stiles didn’t wake up so violently.

It was at some point a little past three in the morning that Derek woke up. His skin felt prickly and itchy, and he almost wanted to climb out of bed and go somewhere. He didn’t know where, just _somewhere_. Somewhere that wasn’t here.

Just when he started to shrug it off, he felt the bed dip and Stiles was heading for the door. Derek frowned, sitting up.

“Stiles?”

He reached the mountain ash barrier, staring down at it. He tried to grab the doorhandle, but it was on the other side of the barrier, so he couldn’t get through. He pushed against it, straining, a snarl escaping him.

Derek felt cold all over.

“Stiles?” He stood up, moving behind him and touching his shoulder.

“I have to go.”

“Go where?”

“Out. Let me out.” Stiles tried to grab the handle again, but he couldn’t. Turning abruptly, he headed for the window, but was met with the same result. Letting out another frustrated growl, he rounded on Derek, eyes bright blue. “You can’t keep me in here. I have to get out!”

“Stiles, what’s going on?” Derek demanded, both hands out in a calming fashion. “Where do you have to go?”

“Just—out!” Stiles dug both hands through his hair, tugging harshly. “I have to get out of here! You can’t keep me here!”

“What’s going on?” John’s groggy voice demanded, opening the bedroom door.

“Dad!” Stiles raced to the door, almost knocking Derek over. “Dad, let me out! Let me out now!”

“Okay, calm down.” The sheriff started to bend down but Derek snarled and grabbed Stiles’ arm, wrenching him back.

“John, do _not_  break the mountain ash circle.”

“No, do it!” Stiles insisted, shoving at Derek hard to make him let go. He didn’t. “Dad, let me out. I have to get out, I have to _go_!”

Thankfully, the sheriff recognized something was wrong, still bent down but not making any move to break the line. His eyes shifted to Derek, who wrenched Stiles around so he was staring at him.

He remembered this feeling. The itchiness, the anxiousness. It had happened before, and that same night, feral Stiles had been clawing to get out. It wasn’t a coincidence it had happened again.

“Stiles!”

“Let me go! Let me out! I have to get out!”

“Stiles!” Derek grabbed his face in both hands, pressing their foreheads together even as Stiles shoved and elbowed at Derek’s chest, trying to get him to let go. “Stiles, listen to me. Listen! You’re okay. You’re here, and you’re okay. You’re not going anywhere, do you hear me?”

“No, I—”

“Hey, look at me. Listen to my voice. I’m not letting you go, understand? I’m not letting you go anywhere. You belong here. You are _staying_  here. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. You’re okay here. You’re safe. Everything is okay. Just breathe, and focus on me.”

Stiles had stopped trying to push him away, and the more Derek spoke, the faster his breathing came, fingers clenched tightly around Derek’s bare shoulders, holding onto him for dear life. The hands that had previously been pushing him away were now clutching to him desperately.

“Don’t let them take me,” he insisted, voice shattered and fear rolling off him in waves. “Derek, I don’t want to go! I don’t want to go, don’t let them take me!”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Derek promised, the itch under his skin driving him crazy, but he just focussed on Stiles. “You’re staying here. With me. Your dad’s not letting you out. You’re staying with me. Just breathe, it’s okay.”

Derek jumped slightly when Stiles shifted, because he hadn’t been expecting it. His arms wrapped around his neck, yanking him closer and hugging him for dear life, harsh, laboured breaths hot and wet against Derek’s neck. Stiles’ heart was going a mile a minute, and Derek couldn’t do anything but just hold him, hugging him back just as tightly.

After a few moments, John stepped over the line and moved up to them, one hand spreading across Stiles’ back, rubbing it gently.

“You’re okay, son. You’re okay. We’ve got you.” He kissed the crown on Stiles’ head. “We’ve got you.”

Derek didn’t say anything more, letting John take over. He could feel the itch beginning to dissipate, and as it did, the tenseness in Stiles’ muscles began to ease.

This didn’t bode well, because Derek was fairly certain what had just happened wasn’t because Stiles had woken up and had a change of heart about where he’d been.

He was starting to think he understood how Stiles had disappeared three years ago.

* * *

Stiles didn’t go back to sleep, not that Derek blamed him. He and John stayed with him in the room, but Stiles wouldn’t speak to them. He just sat on the bed, gritting his teeth whenever they asked him questions. It was strange though, because Derek noticed his face turning red, sweat pouring down it like he was straining himself.

They ended up giving up asking him questions, and both of them called into work. When the sun rose and they felt more confident about Stiles’ escape attempts after hours of watching him, they headed out of the room and down to the kitchen. Derek noticed the sheriff grab some mountain ash and he methodically put a line of it along all the windows and doors that led out of the house.

Stiles actually seemed to relax at that, like he’d been hoping for him to do that. Derek just finished making pancakes, not really knowing what else to do. When he set the plate down in front of Stiles, the other man grabbed his wrist before he could pull it away, staring at him intently.

“I don’t _want_  to go,” he said.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Derek repeated, for what felt like the millionth time, but the desperate look in Stiles’ eyes made him feel like he was missing something.

Once breakfast was eaten, Derek texted the Pack to come over. They’d mostly been ignoring the threat of Valeris, but something about last night had triggered Stiles and they needed to deal with the problem. He also called Chris and asked him to stop in, because Stiles wasn’t the only person they should be worried about. With that Supernatural fight club in existence, every Supernatural in the country was at risk. They needed to find the place and shut it down, sooner rather than later.

The sheriff ended up having to leave, something urgent coming up at work. He only agreed to it because Stiles seemed to be okay, but he grabbed Derek’s arm before he left and told him not to let Stiles out of his sight.

As if he needed to be told.

That meant that everyone had to wait until Lydia showed up before they could enter the house, since the mountain ash prevented them from crossing over the threshold. Derek was gripping Stiles’ arm tightly when the barrier was broken, but he felt comforted by the fact that Stiles was clenching his hand in the back of Derek’s shirt just as tightly. Like he was scared he’d make a break for the door.

Parrish was working and wanted to keep an eye on the sheriff, so he mentioned he wasn’t coming in the group chat. Chris hadn’t arrived yet, but he’d also said he might not be around for a while, since he was looking into something. Peter and Cora were also missing, and Derek realized he’d forgotten to text them. He did that while the others got settled, and figured they could start without them.

“We need to talk about the fight club,” Derek said when they’d all gotten themselves organized in the living room. “We already know that Valeris wants Stiles back, but it’s more than that. As long as the place exists, everyone’s at risk. All of us, and others. We need to figure out what we’re going to do.”

“I don’t think it’ll be as easy as you’re suggesting to take something like that down,” Scott insisted, shaking his head. “It’s not about the location itself, it’s about the people behind it.”

“Exactly. And we know who runs it,” Lydia said with a scoff, looking at Scott, and then Derek. “They mentioned it in the auction video. The Lautus Striga. They’re the ones who targeted Stiles, so clearly they’re the mastermind. And it sounds like they were the one who held the auction, so we need to start there.”

“First we need to figure out where the place _is_ ,” Malia insisted. “So we can murder a few people for what they’ve done.”

Derek saw Stiles shift uncomfortably in his peripheral, but he said nothing. Unfortunately, Derek was going to have to make Malia look up the word ‘tact’ in the dictionary for the millionth time.

“It’s not like the website’s going to have an address,” Jackson said with a scoff, sitting on the couch and leaning back against Ethan. “Unless Stilinski knows where they are so we can go shut them down.” He glanced at him when he said this. “ _Do_  you know where it is?”

“Yes,” Stiles said immediately.

Everyone turned to him, surprised.

“You do?” Derek asked, honestly having expected him _not_  to know.

“That’s perfect,” Scott said, grinning. “We can figure out a plan and go take the whole operation down. Can you tell us how to get there?”

Stiles stared at him for a long moment, and Derek frowned when he saw his cheeks beginning to turn pink. Finally, he said, “No.”

It wasn’t what any of them expected.

“No?” Malia asked. “But you said you know where the place is.”

“I do know,” Stiles agreed.

“So where is it?” she asked.

Stiles gave her the same long stare he’d given Scott before finally saying, “I can’t.” He practically bit the words out.

“Can’t what?” Malia asked impatiently.

“I can’t tell you where it is.”

“Stiles,” Scott insisted, standing and moving to the chair Stiles was sitting in, bending down beside him. “There’s a lot of lives we can save. I know you’re scared, but you don’t have to go. We just need an address.”

Stiles’ face was so red that he looked like he might have heatstroke. He let out a frustrated growl, eyes turning blue and claws coming out, but he still didn’t speak for a few long seconds. Then, he bit out another response around fangs. “You don’t get it, I _can’t_  tell you.”

Something about the way he’d said it was bothering Derek. He stared at him while Scott continued to press, trying to get him to understand.

“Stiles, you really don’t have to worry. I promise, you don’t need to come. We’re a big Pack, we can go, we’ll be safe, but you need to tell us where it is.”

“Scott, I _can’t_! If you—”

“This is important!” Scott pressed, a bit of frustration peeking into his tone.

The look on Stiles’ face showed he was also frustrated himself, raking an agitated hand through his hair. And slowly, Derek felt like he might understand Stiles’ silence the night before. Why he hadn’t answered any questions.

When Scott opened his mouth to insist again, Derek moved over to them and motioned him back. Scott looked offended, but Stiles had already turned his attention to Derek, towering over him. Clearly annoyed, Scott sat back on his heels and watched them.

Derek was eying Stiles, his assumptions about how he’d gone missing resurfacing. He thought about the night before, about how Stiles had reacted, about how much he’d been sweating as they asked him questions, like he was straining, pushing. Like he was trying to speak, but no words were coming.

How he kept repeating ‘I don’t _want_  to go’ when he’d originally been saying ‘I _have_  to go.’

What he said now. That he _couldn’t_. Not that he didn’t _want_  to, he _couldn’t_.

The differences in word choice were subtle, but Derek knew Stiles very, _very_  well.

“You can’t,” Derek said slowly, watching Stiles.

“No, I can’t,” Stiles agreed, still sounding frustrated.

Derek bent down slightly so they were at eye level, watching his expression closely. “Not you _won’t_. You _can’t_.”

Stiles looked startled, shifting back to human, eyes returning to their soft amber colour while he stared at Derek before hastily saying, “Yes—yes! Yes!” He looked like Derek had just cured him of all that ailed him with those five words.

“What’s the difference?” Scott asked, annoyed. He clearly didn’t understand, but Lydia did. And based on Mason’s sharp exhale, so did he.

“Oh my God,” Lydia said softly.

Derek didn’t look away from Stiles. “Everyone thought it was magic that took you. Because you were here, and then suddenly you weren’t. You literally _cannot_  tell us, can you? It’s not that you don’t want to, it’s that you _can’t_.”

“Exactly!” Stiles reached out, gripping the front of Derek’s shirt with both hands. “Yes!”

“Wait, so this is magic?” Scott asked uncertainly. “A Witch did this?”

“Lautus Striga can translate into many things, but it can mean ‘Grand Witch’ in some translations,” Lydia explained. “More than a title, probably literal.”

Stiles looked so relieved Derek thought he might cry. It had him wondering if maybe Stiles _couldn’t_  talk about his time there. Maybe it wasn’t that he was keeping things bottled up. Maybe it was that he physically couldn’t talk about it. Maybe some things had been forced down.

“You know where it is, don’t you?” Derek asked him. “You know where it is, you just can’t tell us where it is.”

“Yes.”

“Can you take us there?” Scott asked.

Derek had never seen someone’s face go from red to white before, but that was exactly what happened. All the blood drained from Stiles’ face so fast he probably blacked out for half a second. He turned to look at Scott, fingers tightening in Derek’s shirt, as if ready to hang onto him for dear life if Scott tried to drag him to the door.

“I’m not going back there. I’m not! I’m not going back!”

“No one is making you go anywhere,” Derek said sharply, gripping Stiles’ shoulders and forcing his attention back to him. “Okay? No one is going to make you go back.”

“Well now what?” Jackson asked impatiently. “Stilinski’s going to have a meltdown if he has to bring us there, but he can’t tell us where it is. Stalemate.”

“I just don’t get why you’d bother to cast a spell that stops someone from disclosing the location, but doesn’t stop them from _going_  to it.” Liam shrugged, frowning. “I mean, isn’t that the same thing?”

“It’s actually pretty smart,” Lydia insisted, seeming annoyed people around her were so incompetent. “If you have a prisoner who escapes, but can only bring reinforcements by going _back_ , then you know they’re coming and you get the escapee _and_  a new set of toys. Realistically, this is the better option. Stiles goes back with a small army, and they get a whole new set of Supernaturals to auction off.”

“How are they supposed to know when he comes back? Could be tomorrow, could be next year.” Liam shrugged. “Still dumb.”

But it wasn’t dumb, was it? Because they _knew_  where Stiles was. Derek was willing to bet that the Witch after him had been using magic the night before to lure him out of the house. While entirely likely that she knew he’d come home, Stiles had been feral. He’d been feral when he’d shown up in the woods, so no one had any guarantee he had any recollection of where ‘home’ even _was_.

And yet, there was that night where feral Stiles had been clawing to escape. And Valeris and his Hunters had shown up, and the ones who’d been sneaking into town behind the Pack’s back had known _exactly_  where Stiles was, when there was no reason for them to know about Derek’s loft. And last night, the Witch knew Stiles was back at the house and no longer in the loft.

“You have a tracking device, don’t you?”

Stiles stared up at Derek helplessly, and it explained so much. Why he wouldn’t go anywhere alone. Why he liked being in the garage, with people who wouldn’t suffocate him, but still with _people_. Why he felt uncomfortable being home alone with his father. Hell, he’d been the one to ask the sheriff to nail his window shut.

They were tracking him, but Stiles couldn’t _tell them_ that!

“Shit,” Scott hissed when it became clear Derek was right. “I’ll call mom. She can get it out.”

“Not going to help if we don’t know where it is,” Lydia insisted, moving off the couch and taking Scott’s place beside Stiles since the Alpha had stood to call his mother. “You can’t tell us where it is, and you can’t tell us you even have it, but what about this?” She lifted one hand, pointed at his wrist, and said, “Is there something foreign under your skin here?”

“No.” Stiles seemed startled to have answered and Lydia preened.

She turned to give Derek a triumphant look. “Magic is ridiculous. There’s always a loophole.” She pointed to another spot and asked the same question.

It was the slowest, and most frustrating game in the world. Lydia pointed at different spots over and over again, covering more ground but Stiles always said no. She tried his neck, behind his ears, his wrists, his collarbone, his shoulder blades, everywhere that made sense for a tracker to be. Eventually, she went to his ankles, working her way up, and it was clear Stiles was getting as frustrated as she was.

Melissa had arrived by then, Scott filling her in to what they were doing since she’d only been told Stiles had a tracking device somewhere beneath his skin.

After she got to his knees, he stood up and said, “ _No_. There’s nothing foreign there. There was a lot of pain. I had to be held down to a table, face-down.”

Lydia seemed startled, but Derek understood. He moved behind Stiles while Lydia stared up at him, and pressed his fingers at the top of Stiles’ spine.

“Is there something foreign under your skin here?”

“No,” Stiles said, but he sounded less annoyed, so they were on the right track.

Derek moved one vertebrae down, and asked the question again. Stiles’ answer was frustrated when he went down one more, so switching tracks, Derek moved his fingers to the base of his spine, and only got two words out before Stiles answered.

“Is there—”

“Yes! There is!”

Melissa moved to join Derek, looking at where he was touching, and then pulled up Stiles’ shirt, feeling around the area.

“I can feel it,” she said, pressing down on one spot. “It’s right there. The problem now is how we get it out.”

“You cut it out,” Malia said in a very ‘duh’ sort of way.

“Thank you, Malia, I’m well aware of that.” She straightened and gave her a look. “My point is, how do I perform surgery on someone with super-healing?”

Silence.

“Wolfsbane?” Kira offered hesitantly.

“Perhaps something less life threatening.”

They all jumped and whipped towards the door. It seemed as if Peter had arrived, but he couldn’t enter. He probably hadn’t knocked specifically so he could have a grand entrance, the asshole.

Lydia moved to the door and pulled it open, but didn’t break the mountain ash barrier to let him in. He just offered her a smile, looking pleased with himself, and turned to Scott.

“There’s one thing that heals more slowly than others.”

Derek looked down at Scott, as well, realizing what Peter meant.

“Alpha.” Peter looked positively gleeful.

Stiles instantly stiffened.

Derek didn’t blame him. After what he’d been through, it was natural he’d be hesitant to let another Werewolf dig claws into him, even if that Werewolf happened to be his best friend.

“He’s not wrong,” Ethan offered hesitantly. “If Scott were to use his claws instead of a scalpel, it would keep the wound open long enough for Melissa to get the tracking device out.”

It was clear when Derek turned to Stiles that he was _not okay_ with this plan, but he said nothing. He just stared back at Derek, like a part of him wanted Derek to stop what was coming, but also recognized there were very few options. While wolfsbane would work, it also posed a risk. If they made a mistake, it could end up killing him. So even though he was uncomfortable with having the claws of an Alpha on him, he kept his mouth shut.

“All right, everyone out,” Melissa said, moving to the door and motioning for Peter to shoo. “He doesn’t need an audience, so all of you—go kill some deer or something.”

“Deer are quite tasty, I must admit,” Peter said pleasantly while Melissa broke the barrier.

“Deer is my favourite,” Malia agreed, getting to her feet.

They all filed out of the house, Lydia telling them they would reconvene later. When Derek went to leave, Stiles’ hand was back in his shirt, tugging hard. He took that for the silent request it was, and when Melissa motioned for him to go, Derek just tilted his head slightly until she noticed the arm moving around behind his back, since Stiles was behind him.

She said nothing and just closed the barrier before shutting the door.

“I need light,” she said, looking around, then motioned the coffee table. “Can you stretch out there? Take your shirt off.”

“Can we call my dad?” Stiles asked, voice even, but words betraying his fear.

“I’ll do it,” Derek said. He started to try and move away to do just that, but Stiles wouldn’t let go of his shirt. It occurred to him that maybe Stiles felt more comfortable having Derek between him and Scott. A weird thought, but he didn’t dwell on it. He just pulled the phone from his pocket while they all stood in the living room and called the station. It was awkward, having them all watch him while he made the call, but he couldn’t exactly pry Stiles’ hand off his shirt.

_“Sheriff’s Department, this is Stilinski.”_

“Hey John, it’s Derek.”

_“What happened? What happened, is he okay?!”_

Derek didn’t even have time to inhale before the sheriff was freaking out and he hastily said, “He’s fine! John, he’s fine! He’s right here, he’s okay.”

He allowed the man a few laboured breaths, clearly trying to calm himself down. When Derek was sure the sheriff wasn’t going to have a heart attack, he continued.

“Stiles has a tracking device. We need to cut it out. He wants you to come home before we do.”

_“I’ll be right there. Don’t do **anything**  until I’m there.”_

He hung up before waiting for Derek’s confirmation. Putting his phone back in his pocket, he turned to the only human in the room and nodded.

“He’s coming.”

She nodded, and then got to her knees beside the coffee table, opening a small kit she’d brought with her. She didn’t ask Stiles to take his shirt off again, figuring he would once his dad arrived, but she got what she needed ready, including a sealed scalpel, even though she probably wouldn’t need to use it.

Leaving to wash her hands, Derek almost wanted to tell her not to bother, considering Stiles couldn’t get sick or infected, but he figured it was the nurse in her. When she returned, she pulled on nitrile gloves, and then waited.

The sheriff was back within minutes, clearly having cut on his siren to reach the house faster. He parked outside and hurried to the door, throwing it open urgently and moving into the living room.

Stiles relaxed infinitesimally, which was comforting for Derek, because he was starting to trust the people around him. The sheriff moved to hug him, and while Stiles still tensed, he relaxed much faster, hugging his father back and finally releasing Derek.

“I’m right here. You’re gonna be okay.” John kissed the crown of his head, pulled back to pat his cheek, and then took a step back.

Stiles lowered his gaze when he took off his shirt, and they all dutifully didn’t react to the mess of scars on his skin. He clenched the shirt tightly in both hands for a few seconds, then finally released his grip and dropped it on the couch. Moving to lie down on the coffee table, Derek almost asked why they didn’t use the couch, but figured Melissa had her reasons.

The sheriff sat down on the edge of a cushion, reaching out to grab at one of Stiles’ hands. Derek lingered on Stiles’ other side, but didn’t touch him. Melissa’s voice was soft when she spoke to Scott, wiping disinfectant on the base of Stiles’ spine and then motioning where she needed him to cut.

The second Scott’s claw was pressed to Stiles’ skin, a low, threatening sound escaped him. Derek glanced up at the sheriff, who was staring right back at him. Scott wisely didn’t move.

“Stiles,” Derek said, slowly reaching out to press one hand on his shoulder, holding him down, and grabbing at Stiles’ hand with his other. “It’s just Scott.”

“No one’s gonna hurt you, son.” The sheriff had also moved to press his free hand to Stiles’ other shoulder. He probably couldn’t keep him down if Stiles really wanted to get up, but hopefully Derek could.

“I’ll make it quick,” Scott promised.

He glanced at his mother before pressing his claw into Stiles’ skin. Another loud snarl left Stiles, but he just tightened his grip on his father and Derek’s hands, and true to his word, Scott was quick. He made the cut exactly as his mother asked, and then retreated quickly. While the wound would heal more slowly, it wasn’t like something this shallow would take hours to heal. Melissa had minutes, if she was lucky.

She moved in quickly, pulling gently at the skin and using splinter forceps to try and dig the tracking device out. Stiles’ shoulders were shifting, like he was testing the strength of his captors, and Derek bent down a bit so Stiles could see him out of the corner of his eye.

“You’re okay, Stiles. She’s just looking for the tracker. It’ll be over quickly. You’re okay.”

He could see John wincing with how hard Stiles was gripping his hand, but he said nothing. Derek couldn’t blame Stiles for his worry and defensiveness. He’d spent three years fighting Supernatural beings, he’d associated pain with his captivity. It was normal he was reacting badly to something like this.

“I’ve got it,” Melissa said, frowning slightly. “I’ve got it.”

Stiles let out a snarl, snapping his teeth when she pulled it free. He bucked, wanting to be let go, and Scott grabbed Melissa, yanking her to her feet and moving her away from Stiles. Derek and the sheriff let him go, as well, but Derek shifted around to stand in front of John, just in case.

Rolling to his feet, Stiles took a few quick steps back from them, angling himself so he had a corner at his back. His eyes were blue and his fists were clenched, but he didn’t look like he was going to attack them. Melissa had both hands raised, one of them still holding the splinter forceps, which were bloody and pinching a small pill-shaped object.

“Sorry,” Stiles said after a long moment. “Thank you.”

“It’s okay, sweetie.” Melissa offered him a small smile, then shifted her gaze to the tracker. “The question now is, what do we do with this?”

* * *

As it turned out, Kira solved their problem. She was heading back to her parents’ place, insisting her presence was no longer needed. She’d come back for Stiles, but he had enough people around who loved and cared about him, and she wanted to help by not suffocating him.

She agreed to take the tracking device, making it appear as if Stiles was heading out of State. Once she arrived home, she was going to mail it to England, where Jackson and Ethan were. They weren’t heading back yet, but by the time Kira got home, they would be on their way and it would take a while for the mail to reach their place. Once it arrived there, they were going to discuss the next course of action. Either they would continue to mail it around until the place was taken down, or they would destroy it. For now, they just didn’t want anyone to know they’d removed it.

Kira came by to say goodbye to Stiles, and was gone within hours, taking the tracking device with her. Nobody was comfortable with it, considering she would have no backup if someone came at her, but she promised she’d text Lydia every couple of hours to confirm she was okay, and she’d let them all know once she mailed the item to England.

After her departure, Stiles went back out with Peter to get some more training, and Derek headed to the garage for some distractions. Chuck was there, a solid pillar of strength that Derek could lean on, and he hated having to use him but he needed someone to help keep him together so that he, in turn, could stop Stiles from falling apart.

Two nights later, Kira confirmed the tracking device was headed for England, and Lydia sat down with Stiles at the Stilinski kitchen table to try and figure out how to get a location out of him that would circumvent the spell cast on him.

It was slow going at first, but then Lydia realized she could ask him if he’d been in specific States the past few years, and when it became clear he could answer those with yes or no, she started narrowing it down to city, and eventually streets.

They couldn’t get any more specific than that, but they had a cross-street, which meant they would be able to find the location fairly easily once they got there. Of course, now there was the problem of who would be going and what, exactly, they were going to do to take the place down.

But there was one thing that bothered Derek a fair bit. He kept remembering every reaction Stiles had had the nights where he’d tried to leave, to go where he was being called—likely with magic—but he also kept thinking about the itchy feeling that preceded Stiles’ reaction. Derek physically _felt_  the magic sliding over him on its way to Stiles, and it bothered him enough that during a lunch break, instead of going to grab food with Lloyd at the diner, he headed to the clinic to see Deaton.

There was a woman with her daughter sitting in the waiting room, a parakeet in a cage on the little girl’s lap. The woman’s husband often used the garage’s services, so when she smiled at him, obviously recognizing him, he managed a smile back before heading to the front counter. He had to wait for Deaton to come out, since the swinging door was made of mountain ash, and debated going around back when he finally emerged.

He seemed startled to see Derek, but let him into the back, telling the woman and her daughter that he was finishing up with Derek’s pet as explanation for why he was being helped first.

When they reached the back room, Scott saw him pass and joined them in one of the examination rooms, where they tended to have most of their pow-wows.

Or where they used to, anyway. Things were still tense, but at least most of the Pack was sticking around. Jackson and Ethan had left right after Kira, and Cora and Isaac were still ho-humming their departures, but everyone else had pretty much settled back in as normal.

Derek was concerned about the state of his loft, since apparently more than just Cora and Peter had been staying there.

“How much do you know about Witch magic?” Derek asked, crossing his arms and leaning back against one of the counters.

“It differs greatly from Druid magic,” Deaton said with a slow nod, “but there are enough similarities that I can recognize it. Not reverse it, but at least understand its purpose.”

Derek bit back his comment about how Deaton could’ve helped them resolve a lot of problems if he’d been around Stiles enough after his human side had come back. It was hard, but he managed.

“Is there anything you can think of that would have someone calling to Stiles, where I can feel it myself, but I’m not affected?”

Deaton had a good poker face, but the slight shift in his features showed that Derek’s words had startled him. He leaned forward on the table that separated them, eying Derek with interest.

“What did it feel like?”

“Itchy,” Derek replied immediately. “Like there was something beneath my skin, clawing to get out. I felt uncomfortable, and like I had to go somewhere, but not enough that I actually stood up to do it. Both times, Stiles was trying to get past the barrier.”

Derek felt sick when he remembered the difference in words. Stiles kept saying he _had_  to go, but that he didn’t _want_  to. The spells cast on him were so specific, it made him feel like he was going to throw up. Stiles had no choice, when he was called, he had to go.

But he didn’t _want_  to.

“This—is very troubling,” Deaton informed him.

Derek frowned. “Why?”

“Because Witch magic doesn’t work that way on humans. If Stiles was originally taken utilizing this magic, then he was exposed to it. Magic you’re describing only affects Supernatural creatures. It is less effective on born creatures, but they still feel it. Depending on their resolve, and if they’ve been previously exposed to it, it weakens them enough to comply. But if it affected Stiles when he was human, and it isn’t affecting you now, there is a piece to this puzzle we are missing.”

There was no way for Derek to piece all of this together. It had been years ago, and he hadn’t even been in town when Stiles was taken. It was likely Stiles himself knew the specifics, but whether or not he could _tell_  them was another story. Not to mention it now put the rest of the Pack at risk. If the sheriff was exposed to whatever magic this was, and he was forced to obey, Stiles would do whatever the Lautus Striga asked of him just to keep his father safe.

He was still thinking this over when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He thought of ignoring it, but that would be a bad idea so he pulled it out and frowned at the name flashing on his screen.

“Yeah?”

 _“Hello nephew.”_ The strain in Peter’s voice was _not_ comforting. _“Could I trouble you to come to our old home in the Preserve as quickly as you possibly can? I know it’s a lot to ask, but your little boyfriend needs you.”_

Derek was already halfway out the back door, Scott on his heels. He didn’t care that Scott was coming, he just had to get to Stiles.

“I’ll be right there.”

_“Do hurry.”_

Definitely not comforting.

Derek shoved his phone into his pocket and climbed behind the wheel. He barely gave Scott enough time to join him before he was peeling out of the lot and hurrying towards the Preserve. Sirens blared behind him, and he cursed, but ignored them. When he glanced in his rear-view mirror, he noticed it was Parrish and pulled his phone out again, calling him.

_“You’re speeding.”_

“Yeah, Jordan. Occur to you there’s a reason for that?”

_“Of course, but I couldn’t ignore it. Just keep driving, people will think you’re running from the cops.”_

“Just what I need,” he grumbled, hanging up and tossing his phone into the cup holder. When they made it to the Preserve, Parrish’s lights cut off and he slowed, allowing Derek to drive off into the trees where no one could see that a police officer had let him get away.

Scott said nothing beside him, but he was tense the whole way. Derek managed to get them far enough into the woods that they were almost at his old childhood home, but the area was too overgrown after years of neglect and they ended up having to climb out of the car a ways out from the house. They both ran, Derek moving much faster than Scott, and when he crashed through the trees at the end, he skid to a halt at the inhuman howl of rage that bellowed in his direction.

He only just managed to snag the back of Scott’s shirt when he exploded out of the trees, yanking him back hard enough to rip the material and have him fall on his ass beside Derek.

Peter was standing at one end of the rotted porch, blood on his clothes, but no visible wounds. Stiles was in the middle of the open space, crouched and poised to spring at the first person who came at him. He was in full Beta shift, and there were rips in his shirt, like claws had sliced into his skin.

Derek scowled over at Peter, who glared right back.

“It was an _accident_. He did much worse to me.” He motioned his ruined clothes and overall bloody appearance.

“What happened?” Derek demanded, releasing Scott and taking a slow step forward. Stiles’ eyes shot to him and he growled.

“It’s quite clear what happened,” Peter said, sounding annoyed. “We were sparring, trying to get his natural reflexes up. I overestimated how close he was and ended up slicing into him. After that, Stiles checked out.”

Derek could tell Peter wasn’t happy about what had happened. He was probably pissed Stiles had reverted to this beast, who’d had no problems ripping him apart. Derek didn’t worry about that right now, he just had to get Stiles back in control.

Thankfully, because Stiles had been _Stiles_  minutes before, it would be easier to pull him back to the surface this time. But it only reinforced Derek’s belief that Stiles was one wrong move away from being feral at all times.

Holding both hands out slowly, showing Stiles he wasn’t armed and he wasn’t wolfed out, he took a few cautious steps forward. Stiles hunkered down more, growling low.

As much as it chaffed, Derek grit his teeth, lowered his stance slightly, and tilted his head to one side, baring his throat. It made every hair on his body rise, and the submission was uncomfortable, but he wasn’t going to be able to get any closer unless he showed Stiles he didn’t mean him any harm.

For a few long seconds, nothing happened. Then, finally, the growling stopped. Stiles stayed poised to strike, but he didn’t look like he was going to attack Derek anymore. It was more of a defensive stance.

Derek stayed low to the ground, trying to make himself seem a bit smaller, and inched closer to Stiles. He could hear Scott muttering curses under his breath behind him, but ignored him in favour of approaching Stiles.

“Stiles?” Derek was only about two feet away. “Can you hear me?”

He reached out one hand, but it had been the wrong thing to do. The beast roared and leapt at him. Scott shouted his name and he heard Peter curse, but Derek just landed hard on his back with Stiles on top of him, one hand against his chest and the other over his head, claws out and readying to slice into him.

On a whim, Derek twisted his head and bared his throat again, feeling extremely vulnerable given he was _not_  going to hurt Stiles, but he also recognized he was playing a dangerous game with his own life. He kept himself relaxed beneath Stiles, hands loosely at his sides, and neck exposed for Stiles to do with as he pleased.

Stiles seemed to hesitate, blue eyes inspecting him curiously. Peter and Scott had started to approach when Stiles had jumped on Derek, but they both froze when it became clear he wasn’t about to hurt him.

Not yet, anyway.

“Stiles,” Derek said, neck still tilted towards him. “It’s okay. No one’s going to hurt you.” He slowly shifted his hands, being sure not to make any sudden movements, and rested both of them on Stiles’ thighs, which were on either side of Derek’s hips. He let his hands run smoothly up his thighs, and then back down in a calming manner.

“Derek,” Scott said nervously.

“I’m the one about to get my throat ripped out,” Derek said, trying to keep his voice calm so as not to set Stiles off. “How about you shut the fuck up and let me handle this?”

Scott wisely said nothing more and Derek kept running his hands up and down Stiles’ thighs. Eventually, the raised claws lowered, Stiles staring down at him like he recognized him, but couldn’t place him. Derek tensed when Stiles lowered his face into his neck, waiting for him to tear his throat out, but he didn’t.

He just buried his face in Derek’s neck and inhaled deeply. A low rumble started in Stiles’ chest, but this one was more pleased than threatening. Derek jumped when a tongue laved over his pulse point, Stiles nuzzling into his neck. He wasn’t exactly happy to have a feral Werewolf’s teeth that close to his neck, but this was promising. He just kept rubbing Stiles’ thighs, listening to him breathe against his throat.

After what felt like an eternity, the breathing became more human and less animalistic. Then Stiles’ heart began to pound in his chest and his breaths came more erratically. When his hands came up to grip tightly at Derek’s arms, he knew that Stiles was back.

He knew Stiles had clawed his way back to the surface.

“You’re so fucking stupid,” Stiles said hoarsely. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I wasn’t going to hurt you,” Derek said, shifting his hands from Stiles’ thighs to his back, hugging him closer. “I was thinking you’d find your way back. And you did.”

“I could’ve killed you.”

“I don’t think you would have.”

“You don’t _know_  that!”

“I know _you_ ,” Derek countered. “Feral or not, I _know_  you, Stiles. And you didn’t hurt me before, why would this time be different?”

Stiles exhaled sharply against his throat, and then shifted so he could sit up. He was slow getting to his feet, but he eventually got there and Derek pushed himself up as well. Thankfully, Scott was smart enough to stay back, which was a good thing since Stiles’ control was hanging on by a literal thread.

“You okay buddy?” Scott asked uncertainly.

“Yeah.” He avoided looking at anyone, suddenly fascinated with something at his feet. “I’m good.”

“Perhaps we should return to our more... theoretical training programs,” Peter said from halfway down the porch.

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed. “Sorry,” he muttered in afterthought.

“Want to head home?” Scott asked him.

Stiles shook his head, and Derek checked his phone for the time. The guys were probably wondering where he was, though if he showed back up with Stiles, they’d probably piece it together.

“I was at work. Want to head to the shop? Chuck probably has some more mundane tasks for you to do.”

“Sure.” Stiles seemed relieved that Derek wasn’t pissed off at him. Which was ridiculous, because why on earth would he be? It wasn’t Stiles’ fault, much as he liked to believe it was.

Peter stayed behind while the others trudged out of the forest. Derek let Stiles take up the rear, since he didn’t seem keen on having someone behind him, and while it made his wolf snarl in his mind, Derek tolerated having someone dangerous following right at his back.

Stiles sat in the back seat for the ride out of the Preserve and Derek dropped Scott back off at the clinic—even though a bitter part of him wanted to make him walk, since he hadn’t been invited _anyway_. Once they were back at the garage, Chuck was on Derek the second he walked in.

“The fuck you been?” he demanded, eyes skirting to Stiles. “Just because you own the place doesn’t mean you can fuck off whenever you want.”

“I know, sorry. Something came up.”

“Shut up. Get back to work.”

Stiles shifted uncomfortably, but Derek just smiled a little and motioned for him to follow. “Don’t worry about Chuck, he’s not actually mad. He’s always like that.”

“He seems pretty mad.”

“What does your nose say?” Derek asked, moving back to his workbench and pulling a few files over to see what he had to get done in the afternoon.

Stiles stared at Chuck for a long while, watching him bark angrily at Lloyd, and then Jason, and then Lloyd again before disappearing into the office.

“I like him,” Stiles said honestly. “He makes me feel normal.”

“Yeah, Chuck’s good at that,” Derek agreed, just as the man came back out of the office and whistled sharply.

“Oi. Kid. Get in here, I got phones that need manning.”

For a few seconds, nobody moved. Then Stiles looked around, started when he realized Chuck was speaking to him, and motioned himself.

“Who, me?”

“Did I stutter? You stick around, you’re getting put to use. Get in here, I’ll teach you the ropes.”

“I know how to answer a phone,” Stiles insisted, heading for the office.

“Good for you, didn’t ask. Hurry up, I’m not getting any younger.”

Derek and Lloyd shared an amused look, a small laugh escaping Derek while he shook his head. He had absolutely no doubt in his mind that Stiles was going to nail the calls. Derek had been thinking about how perfect he’d be back before he’d been found. Sure, Stiles was different now, and still struggling to get himself back together, but he was stronger than he was giving himself credit for.

It was weird to realize that Stiles thought he needed others because he was scared. Derek could feel it on him, the way he relied on people. He legitimately thought he wanted others around due to fear, but Derek knew better. Stiles was using his Pack to ground him. When he’d been gripping Derek and John’s hands while being sliced into, it wasn’t because he was scared of having an Alpha cutting into his skin. It was because he was worried he was going to wolf out and attack people.

Stiles might not recognize the difference, but Derek did.

He listened in whenever Stiles answered the phone, working on a tune up for a car they’d had for a few days. It kept getting bumped down on the list because the owner was pushing back his pickup date, but he’d show up eventually so it was best to get it done now. Stiles seemed good on the phone, almost normal. He joked and laughed with people on the other end, reviewed the schedule, and always cheerfully thanked them for their patronage. It was so much like how he used to be that Derek wondered how hard he was working to sound that way.

It was evident being that ‘on’ all day had exhausted him, because when dinner rolled around, Chuck kicked him out of the office and told him to take Derek’s lazy fat ass out of his garage and grab something to eat.

Derek called back that his ass wasn’t fat, and Chuck told him to shut up and get out of his sight before he fired him. Derek just laughed and led the way out, Stiles on his heels. They went down to the diner for dinner, Derek calling the sheriff while they walked so he could meet them there.

He showed up with Parrish, and while it was clear both had heard about the mishap earlier— _fuck you, Scott_ —neither of them said anything about it.

They went back to work afterwards, Stiles hanging out in the back room with Chuck while the man tried to work on the Mustang. He was probably getting Stiles to do the bending over and the various things Chuck himself couldn’t do anymore. Stiles seemed really relaxed while he helped out, and it made Derek think about dropping by on a day off with him so they could work on the car together.

It was half past nine when they finally went home, both of them showering and heading to bed. Things were starting to look up. They weren’t perfect, and Stiles was far from being okay, but he was getting there. Slowly but surely, he was getting there.

* * *

Derek was bent over a car with a wrench in one hand and a rag in the other when he heard the sirens approaching. He didn’t let it bother him, since the police station was close to the garage, and it was entirely likely the car would pass them by, but everyone paused when the cruiser squealed to a halt right outside the garage’s large bay doors, Derek frowning and straightening.

Parrish was out of his car so fast Derek felt like he’d blinked and the man was on him.

“Stiles is gone.”

It felt like someone had just punched Derek in the chest. “What?”

“He’s gone! He was training with Peter, and then froze, said he had to go, and ran off. Peter tried to chase after him, but he lost him in the Preserve.”

Derek threw what he was holding down and bolted for his car, Parrish hurrying back to the cruiser. He climbed behind the wheel and shot out of the lot so fast he almost clipped Parrish. He floored it to the Preserve, the cruiser right on his ass with the sirens blaring, and when he reached the edge of where the Hale house used to sit, he saw a number of other cars already there.

He patted his pocket for his phone, wondering why he hadn’t been told immediately, but found his pocket empty. He couldn’t remember where his phone was, and right now, he didn’t fucking _care_.

Climbing out, he and Parrish hurried through the trees the rest of the way to the house, and found the Pack there arguing with each other. The sheriff looked like he was falling apart at the seams, standing on the porch and gripping the railing so tightly his fingers were turning white. Melissa was beside him, looking concerned but fierce. Derek understood. She had to keep it together for him.

“What happened?” Derek demanded, moving forward with Parrish while the others argued.

Scott had Peter by the front of the shirt, wolfed out and furious while snarling in his uncle’s face.

“Peter let them take him!”

“I didn’t let _anyone_  take him,” Peter snapped back. He was only partially wolfed out, but it was clear that he was going to lose it on Scott soon if he didn’t let him go. “They called to him, and he fled. He’s remarkably fast. I tried to keep up, but I lost his trail.”

“We never should’ve left him alone with you,” Scott hissed angrily. “We never should’ve trusted you with him!”

“Enough!” Derek grabbed at Scott and forced him away from Peter. Scott ripped the other man’s shirt, since he was still holding onto him, but Derek managed to get them separated. “I don’t care whose fault it is, or what blame game you want to play. They took Stiles, and we need to get him back. That’s all that matters. That’s the _only_  thing that matters!”

“He’s gonna go feral again,” Scott snapped. “He’s going to lose control again! We might never get him back! He could _die_  this time!”

“Hey!” Derek grabbed the front of Scott’s shirt with one hand and wrenched him forward so they were nose to nose. “You need to stow that. The more you panic, the further away he gets. Are you an Alpha or aren’t you?” He shoved Scott back and he stumbled a few steps, looking stunned. “Stiles is gone, but we can’t focus on where he went and on what we don’t know. We can only focus on what we _do_  know. Which is what?”

“There’s a Witch involved,” Lydia said softly.

“Right. And we have a vague idea of where the fight club is,” Derek added.

“We know he’s undefeated and worth a lot to Valeris,” Lydia offered again.

“And they want him feral.” Malia shrugged. “Easier to control something that can’t think for itself.”

“They’re cruel,” Peter said dryly, as if that needed to be stated.

Derek turned to him at the words, a thought occurring to him. The second it did, he fucking hated it. But he knew it was their best shot at getting Stiles back _and_  taking down the ring.

“Shit.” He rubbed at his mouth, and the look the others gave him made him realize they knew he had an idea.

“What are you thinking?” Lydia demanded.

“They’re cruel.” Derek pointed at Peter, repeating his words, and looking at Scott. “They take enjoyment out of watching others suffer. Can you imagine how much enjoyment they would get if they threw Stiles into a cage match against a friend?”

No one spoke for a long moment. Surprisingly, it was the least expected party who did.

“What?” John asked hoarsely.

“We know where they are, but they don’t _know_  that we know that. If I move slowly, take at least a few days to reach the place, they’ll think I followed his scent. They’ll take me in, and the ‘Grand Witch’ is going to know who I am. They’re going to rush to have a match, pitting me against Stiles, knowing full well what that would do to his psyche, and mine.”

“No,” John said, pulling away from the railing, looking horrified. “ _No_! Derek, that’s-that’s _insane_! He could _kill_  you!”

“But he won’t,” Derek insisted. “Because while I’m making my way there, the rest of you are going to figure out how we’re going to take them down.” He turned to Scott. “Whatever happened to Stiles that had him affected by the magic touched all of you. I’m the only one who isn’t affected, so I’m the only one who can do this. I’m the only one Stiles will hold back for. So I’m doing this, and the rest of you better damn well figure a way to get us both out, because if I get killed by the love of my life, I’m going to be really, really, _really_  fucking pissed off!”

* * *

Derek honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever felt this awful. Every breath was like shards of broken glass tearing at his lungs. His bones ached as if they were all broken and couldn’t heal. His muscles had that deep rooted pain in them that didn’t seem to dissipate no matter how long he waited.

He still had strength left in him. He knew that he could still fight, that he could rip apart the people on either side of him, dragging his limp form down a dark corridor, feet and knees sliding easily along the hard ground. He knew he could take them out, but that wasn’t the plan.

If they knew how strong he was, they had reasons to work harder at breaking him, and he didn’t want that. What he wanted was to be taken to the Lautus Striga so that she could see how perfect this was for her little ring. He needed her to recognize that Derek was Stiles’ friend, and rush into a match so that they could move forward with their plan.

Provided the others had thought of one. The last he’d heard was they were finalizing things, but that had been several hours ago, so he had to hope they would be quick about it. He hadn’t been lying when he said he’d be pissed beyond all reason if Stiles ended up killing him.

The being dead part would be pretty shitty, but he was more concerned about what that would do to Stiles. Stiles already blamed himself for all the people he’d hurt, Derek really didn’t want his death to be on Stiles’ conscience.

He also really didn’t want to die, despite his actions that clearly suggested otherwise.

When he was thrown roughly into a room, he groaned at the blood in his mouth from the fall, struggling to get to his hands and knees. Well, pretending to struggle more than he truly felt. He was in pain, but it wasn’t anything he hadn’t experienced before.

The sharp exhale he heard when someone slammed their foot into the middle of his back and forced him back down suggested Stiles was close enough to see him. He couldn’t smell him, though, so he wasn’t sure where he might be.

The black hood on his head was wrenched off and he winced at the bright lights on him, realizing he was in the same mirrored room Stiles had been in during the auction. He couldn’t hear that many people behind the glass, so he felt like this wasn’t an auction. This was different.

Which was exactly what they were banking on.

 _“My, my,”_ a voice he didn’t recognize said over the speakers in the room. _“Aren’t you a treat. I understand why you weren’t affected by my magic before. Born a monster, and I don’t recall seeing you when I sent to Aswang to Beacon Hills.”_

“Where’s Stiles?” Derek bit out, the foot on his back stomping harder. He grunted, but didn’t react otherwise. They hadn’t used nearly enough wolfsbane on him, which was their mistake if he decided to tear through the place to get to Stiles.

_“Where indeed. Oh Romulus, he brought us such a pretty toy, didn’t he?”_

“Where _is_  he?” Derek snarled.

The door behind him opened but Derek couldn’t turn to look. He just lay there while someone was forced into the room. Feet were in his peripheral, and then Stiles grunted when he was pushed to his knees, one hand in his hair and a wolfsbane laced knife at his throat. He was breathing hard, hands curled into fists, and Derek could see how much he was struggling to maintain control. How hard it was for him not to slip back into the feral beast he’d been not long ago.

_“Hello Romulus. It’s been a while. Glad to see Valeris got his pet back.”_

“Thank you, Lautus Striga.”

Derek jerked roughly and growled when he heard the voice. James Valeris was _right there_. Right in the room with him. He could jump up and rip out the man’s throat for everything he’d done to Stiles. And he wanted to, so badly. He wanted to do it, but he didn’t trust his odds. He didn’t know how many of them there were, but they probably had weapons to take down Werewolves. Getting killed by Hunters wasn’t part of the plan.

_“I believe we’ve been given a rare opportunity, wouldn’t you say, Valeris?”_

“You mean the monster?” Derek assumed Valeris was referring to him.

_“Yes. Intriguing notion, don’t you think?”_

“I think he’s more trouble than he’s worth. He was captured too easily to be worth anything. Might as well get rid of him now.”

Derek heard a gun cock and something pressed against the base of his skull.

“No, _no_!” Stiles forced out, voice sounding wrong to Derek’s ears. He was breathing hard, head tilted back to an almost impossible angle, and fists clenched in his jeans. “Please. _Please_. Don’t.”

“Don’t?” Valeris asked, sounding amused. “Since when do you have a say in what happens, pet?”

“Please,” Stiles said again, grunting when his head was wrenched back a degree further, knife biting into his skin. “Please. I’ll do anything. Anything you want. Please just don’t.”

_“Did you hear him, Valeris? **Anything** , he said. Think of the possibilities. Think of what you can achieve with Romulus, if only the monster is spared.”_

It occurred to Derek that the woman behind the mirror didn’t have full control. Perhaps Derek, as the ‘thief’ who’d taken Stiles, was at Valeris’ mercy. The owner of the pet that was stolen had the right to punish the person who’d taken him. It was just a theory, but the Witch didn’t sound like she cared much either way.

“She’s right,” the man holding the gun to Derek’s head said. It sounded like one of the two men who’d been with Valeris when they’d come for Stiles all those weeks ago. “We stand to gain more keeping him alive.”

Valeris himself didn’t sound convinced. He hummed once, Stiles letting out a sharp sound when his head was pulled back yet again. Derek actually worried he might break his neck.

“Tell me, pet. What is he to you? This monster you beg for me to spare.”

Stiles was breathing hard, and for a long moment, Derek thought he wasn’t going to answer. When Valeris hummed again and told the guy behind Derek to shoot him, Stiles panicked.

“Wait, _wait_! Please wait!”

“I asked you a question. You disobeyed. This is your punishment.”

“I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_. Please, Master, I’m sorry. Please just don’t hurt him. He’s-he has nothing to do with this.”

“That’s not what I asked. I asked what he is to you. This is your last chance to answer honestly, or the last thing you’ll see of him is his brains on the floor. Maybe I’ll even make you clean up the mess he’ll leave behind when he goes.”

Stiles’ heart was slamming so hard in his chest, it was painful to listen to. Derek suddenly felt like his presence was a bad idea. Maybe it would’ve been better if someone else had come instead of him, because Stiles was losing his composure. That wasn’t Derek’s intention, he just needed to be sure whoever ended up with Stiles in that cage was someone the feral beast wouldn’t kill.

Not that Derek had any guarantee, but he was hopeful.

“Who. Is. He?” Valeris repeated darkly.

Stiles inhaled sharply, then forced the words out. “He’s everything.”

That... was _not_  what Derek was expecting. Evidently, it wasn’t what anyone else was expecting, either.

“He’s everything. Please, I can’t... I need him. I need him. He means everything to me.”

“Are you in _love_  with him?” Valeris sounded disgusted. “He’s a _man_. And a monster. But I suppose, you’re a monster too, aren’t you?”

He shoved Stiles forward, blade slicing into his neck shallowly. Stiles fell onto his hands and knees, avoiding looking at Derek, hands curling into fists.

“Disgusting.”

 _“Think of the publicity,”_ the woman on the other side of the mirror said. _“Romulus, undefeated champion, fighting the man who means **everything**  to him. What will win out in a battle to the death? Survival, or love?”_

Stiles’ head shot up. “What? No! You said—”

Valeris kicked him in the face. Derek didn’t know what his boots were made of, but whatever it was clearly hurt Werewolves, because Stiles’s face split open and he spat blood, coughing hard.

“How soon can we organize the fight?”

_“Tomorrow evening, at the latest. Earlier, if everyone cooperates.”_

“Fine. I’ll take my pet home. You can keep the born atrocity.”

“Wait.” Stiles’ arm was grabbed and he was wrenched to his feet. “Wait! You can’t! Derek!”

The door slammed behind him. Derek listened and heard Stiles struggling, heard him snarl. Something happened that he couldn’t make out, glass shattering and a roar, but then there was a shot and Derek’s blood ran cold. He only relaxed when he heard a howl of agony, because Stiles was still alive, and that was the important thing.

For a long moment, there was silence, save for the man still digging his foot into Derek’s back. It wasn’t the same one who’d been holding the gun to his head, that man had left with Valeris.

After what seemed an eternity, the door behind him opened again, and heels clicked across the floor. A woman bent down beside Derek, eying him with interest.

“Hello Derek Hale.”

He just growled, letting his eyes bleed blue.

“That’s quite enough, unless you’d like another large dose of wolfsbane. But I’d rather not tip the scales _too_  far in Valeris’ favour. You see, I don’t like it when things become predictable. Makes it boring, it’s bad for business. Of course, everyone loves Romulus, he’s quite pretty, and most saw him in his prime, as a human, back when he was still winning against monsters twice as terrifying as you. But this? Oh, this is going to be a story for the ages. Romulus, forced to fight the man who means everything to him. Forced to choose between dying himself, or killing the love of his life. Poetic, don’t you think?”

“What makes you think I’m going to lay a hand on him?” Derek demanded.

“Because, Mr. Hale. If one of you doesn’t fall by the end of the match, you both will.” Her eyes hardened. “Nobody likes a weak champion. If Romulus refuses to fight, and you refuse to fight, I suppose we have no use for either of you. Either you kill him, or he kills you, otherwise you both die.”

“I’d rather die than touch him,” Derek hissed. “And I doubt very much he wants to live through this again. If killing us both is the endgame, it’s going to be a short match.”

The Witch let out a soft laugh. “I wonder, after three years of fighting to survive, if Romulus would agree. Why would he risk dying, when he worked _so hard_ to survive this long? Always waiting. Always hoping someone would come and save him. Always insisting he would be found. That Derek would come for him. That Derek would _save_  him.”

Derek’s chest clenched at the words, and he had to wonder how true they were. Evidently, she saw this in his expression, because she laughed.

“Oh, but he didn’t tell you. For an entire year, he kept insisting Derek Hale, the strongest Werewolf he knew, was going to find him. Was going to get him out. He kept biting the words at us through his bars, insisting it was only a matter of time. Imagine his hopelessness when one year turned to two. And then two to three. Imagine how angry he must’ve felt when he had to save himself. When Derek Hale _didn’t_  come for him, like he’d been so sure he would. Are you positive the person you knew is still in there? Maybe his Master is going to beat the compassion out of him. Maybe tomorrow, when he shows up, he won’t be the same person anymore.”

Derek snarled at her, putting every ounce of venom he could into his tone.

“When I get out of here, you’re the first person I’m going to take down.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” She reached out to slap lightly at his visible cheek. “When you get out of here, it’ll be wrapped in a sheet and tossed down the garbage disposal with the rest of the trash we incinerate on a weekly basis. Enjoy the next twenty-four hours, because you’re not walking out of here alive.”

* * *

They didn’t keep him comfortable. He was fed, and allowed to sleep, but they’d shoved him in a cage that was much too small for him, in the same room as countless other beasts and monsters that went bump in the night. A majority of them were still aggressive, snarling and biting out insults, swiping at the Hunters that patrolled in front of their cages.

Some of them were quiet, looked almost broken, sitting behind their bars waiting to die. Derek could hear the area above them beginning to fill up, people joking and laughing, ready to enjoy a good show. He didn’t know how they’d marketed the fight, but people sounded excited. No doubt they were glad to have Romulus back after such a long absence. He was a crowd favourite, after all.

Derek really hoped the rest of the Pack was coming. He’d left his phone with his Camaro just over the State border, because he wasn’t willing to risk anyone finding it and knowing their plans. Provided their plans were panning out.

He didn’t care so much what happened to him. If he had to, he’d take himself out, if only so Stiles could live long enough to be rescued. This wasn’t like last time. They knew how to get him back this time, and even if Derek was dead, they’d save Stiles.

They had to.

If they didn’t, Derek was going to haunt them from the grave.

He knew they were getting closer to the fight when the noise levels increased. A few minutes later, someone came to collect him carrying a rifle and chains. They got the chains on his wrists before opening the cage door, and he could feel the wolfsbane on them biting into his skin. There were lines of mountain ash on the floor, forcing Derek in a specific direction, the Hunters following on either side just outside the line so he couldn’t hurt them. They led him to a room, which was strange, but he understood when he walked in.

Stiles was there, sitting in the corner, head buried in his knees and fingers clenched in his hair. The door shut behind Derek and he moved quickly to his side, bending down in front of him and touching his arm lightly.

“Stiles.”

“Why did you come here?” Stiles asked, misery laced in every word. “Why did you do this to me?”

“I wasn’t going to leave you here,” Derek insisted.

“And this is better?” Stiles demanded, looking up at him, a mixture of fury and agony on his face. “Forcing me into the ring with you is _better_?! At least if you’d left me here, I’d have known dad was okay. They would’ve left the rest of you alone. They only wanted me back, I should’ve just come _back_! I shouldn’t have resisted, I should’ve listened. The Master was calling, and I only made it worse by refusing to obey.”

“Hey,” Derek said harshly, shifting so he could grab the back of Stiles’ neck. It was awkward with the cuffs still linking his wrists together, but he managed it. “Listen to me. He is _not_  your Master. He does _not_  own you. I don’t care what happens when we get out there. I don’t care if you have to kill me to survive, you _do_  it, understand? We lost you once and it almost destroyed us all. I won’t let them take you a second time. Not again. You belong to _me_ , understand? You are part of _my_  Pack, and I am not letting these people take you. So if you have to kill me to survive, you do it, understand?”

“I can’t,” Stiles insisted, gripping the front of Derek’s shirt in both hands. “Derek, I fucking _can’t_!”

“You can’t?” he asked. “Or you won’t?”

Stiles looked like he’d been slapped. He just stared at Derek, horrified, and shook his head. “No. _No_!”

“Stiles, you _can_. If you have to, you do it. Can’t and won’t are two different things, we’ve already spoken about that. We’ve already _proved_  that. If you have to, you take me down, understand? I’m not going to fight you.”

“There has to be a way,” Stiles insisted. “There has to be a way out! Maybe-maybe we can _Hunger Games_ them! Maybe we can make them root more for our survival than our demise!”

“This isn’t a movie, Stiles.” Derek pressed his forehead against Stiles’, closing his eyes and letting out a slow breath. “I wish we had more time. I wish I could tell you how sorry I am for everything. I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry I gave you an ultimatum. I’m sorry I didn’t come back. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you how I felt before our falling out. I’m sorry Peter turned Scott into a Werewolf. I’m sorry my family ruined your life. I’m just—sorry. I’m sorry about everything.”

Stiles’ hands in his shirt tightened, and Derek lost his balance when he was wrenched forward. Stiles’ lips were on his, the kiss sloppy and urgent, but still perfect. Because it was Stiles. Because this was what Derek had wanted for years, what he’d wished he’d had since the moment Stiles had hesitated before rushing in to check on Scott back when he thought Derek was dying. This was what Derek had wanted for so, so long, and he hated that it was now, here, in this dingy room beneath the floor of a death ring where Hunters were cheering for their deaths.

But it was Stiles, so it was perfect, and he just kissed him back, wanting to savour this moment for the rest of his undoubtedly very short life.

When they pulled apart, Derek shifted his hands so he could cup Stiles’ face, brushing his thumbs across his cheekbones, foreheads still pressed together.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Stiles insisted quietly.

“You’re going to have to. For as long as we can both hold out.” He hoped Stiles understood what he meant. _Until the others arrive._

The good thing about all this was that they’d had time. The Pack had thought the match would happen right away, but they’d gotten an extra day. Surely whatever was planned was in place by now. Derek could only hope.

The door behind them opened, but neither of them moved. Derek’s hands tightened on Stiles’ face, and his fists clenched even more in Derek’s shirt. It wasn’t until a Hunter came up behind Derek and jabbed a tazer into his back that they separated. He grunted, feeling all his muscles clench, electricity shooting up and down his nerve endings. When he fell onto his side, he noticed the camera in the corner. He wished he’d noticed it before, because he was pissed off the crowd had gotten a show.

It made sense, though. He doubted they made a habit of allowing contestants to hang out right before a match, but this was different. Because their favourite was going to be fighting the man he loved, and that was probably the most exciting thing in the world to these sick, rich fucks.

“Move.” Derek had a foot prodding him in the side and he grunted, the amount of electricity coursing through him much more than he was used to. They’d upped the voltage since he was last electrocuted, clearly.

Stiles was already on his feet, the other Hunter leading him towards the door. He and Derek locked gazes before he was shoved out and to the left. When Derek got to his feet, the Hunter behind him pushed at his shoulder and he snarled at him, then moved out of the room. He was forced to go right, following another path of mountain ash all the way to a door.

He only had to wait a few seconds before the Hunter opened it and shoved at him. He stumbled forward, turning to glare at the man, but keys were tossed to him and the door shut behind him again. He could hear the crowd roaring overhead. There was a short, mountain-ash path leading to an open door to the large cage he’d seen in the videos with Stiles.

The cage door on the other side was also open, but the regular door leading into the back where Stiles was likely waiting was still closed. He didn’t think that would last long.

Looking down at the keys he’d been thrown, he realized they were for the cuffs. That was comforting, at least. He’d have had a hell of a time fighting with his wrists locked together.

It took some doing getting them undone, Derek wincing at the wolfsbane burning into his skin, but they eventually fell to the ground and he rubbed at his wrists, watching them slowly heal. Not a high enough dose to cause lasting damage, he supposed.

Glancing back out towards the cage door, he let out a slow breath, knowing this was it, and hoping the others were ready.

Squaring his shoulders and cracking his neck, he walked forward until he was in the cage, the door slamming shut of its own accord behind him.

Derek looked around at the crowd while people booed him, eyes raking over all the faces for someone familiar. He caught sight of Valeris fairly quickly, baring his teeth at him, but he couldn’t see anyone else he knew. That wasn’t comforting, because he’d been expecting Chris to show up, if only to let him know the plan was proceeding with his presence alone.

He was still wearing his jeans, shirt and leather jacket, so he chucked the jacket and dropped it outside the bars, not wanting it to get ruined. Of course, it was entirely likely he would die in this ring if the others hadn’t gotten their shit together, but on the off chance he didn’t die at the hands of the love of his life, he wanted his father’s jacket to survive the fight, too.

The jeans were restrictive, which was a pain, but he just stretched and tried not to feel nervous. He wasn’t planning on hurting Stiles, but as far as he could remember, they had twenty minutes of fight time before the match was called to an end. As long as he and Stiles could put on a good show for a while, Derek would know by the nineteen minute mark if Stiles had to put him down.

He really hoped he didn’t, but things weren’t looking good right now.

There were loud announcements overhead, but Derek couldn’t make them out over the screaming crowd. The noise was deafening, and he couldn’t imagine how this must’ve been for Stiles when he’d first turned. He remembered some videos where he’d been covering his ears, but it was so much worse in person than it had been watching it. He was getting a headache, and the noise was grating on his nerves, making his gums itch.

He felt like he was standing in the cage for a long time, and he was beginning to worry about what was going on. Stiles wasn’t out yet, and while every second of time they had before the fight was a good thing, this didn’t bode well. Where the fuck _was_  he?

The crowd was getting restless, and Derek caught sight of a clock overhead, beneath the timer. He watched it for a long while, and at the ten minute mark, he knew something was wrong. He’d been in the cage for a while before seeing the clock, so he’d probably been waiting closer to twenty, and still Stiles wasn’t there.

That didn’t bode well.

Finally, the lights outside the cage dimmed and a loud, low bass began to beat. The crowd went crazy, most of them chanting ‘Rome, Rome, Rome’ repeatedly. Some of the more dignified guests were just clapping, but a majority of them were excited for the upcoming match.

Derek watched the door across from him, waiting for it to open. Once it did, he relaxed, because it meant Stiles was okay, and he was coming.

And come he did. Very quickly. On all fours.

Derek barely had time to recognize that it was Stiles before the other man slammed right into him, sending him on his ass and landing on top of him, roaring in his face.

The other door slammed shut, trapping them both in the cage together, and as Derek struggled to keep Stiles’ claws away from his face, teeth snapping inches from his neck, he realized why it had taken him so long to come out.

Stiles was feral again. They’d spent the past twenty minutes making him lose control. They’d probably guessed Stiles and Derek weren’t going to fight seriously, and the crowd wanted a show. This was more entertaining, watching a feral beast kill someone he loved while unable to control himself.

Derek had really underestimated how sick these fuckers were.

“Stiles,” Derek forced out, twisting his head and struggling to keep him off him. “Stiles, it’s me, _it’s **me**_!”

He got one knee between them and forced Stiles off him, leaping to his feet and jerking away from claws swiped at his chest. It was such a close call that his shirt ripped, but not his skin. Derek hit the cage, and ducked when Stiles swung at him, rolling under him and moving away, trying to put some distance between them.

“Stiles!” While Derek had fully expected to end up in the cage with a feral Stiles, he’d actually been hopeful about their chances when he’d walked out of the room to a sane one. “Stiles, don’t let them do this to you!”

Derek dodged another swipe, but he wasn’t used to the size of the cage like Stiles was. He kept hitting the bars and having to dodge out of the way, narrowly missing getting clawed up. Stiles was also smart, feral or not, and he quickly noticed the pattern, so that eventually when Derek went to dodge, he got slashed right across the face. The claws narrowly missed his eyes and he stumbled away, trying to rub the blood away before it obscured his vision.

Before he managed it, Stiles tackled him around the middle, landing on him again and clamping sharp teeth right on his pulse.

Derek went very still, Stiles’ teeth digging in harder, and he made sure not to move. If he showed any kind of aggression, Stiles would rip his face away and take most of Derek’s throat with him. So he stayed motionless, trying to ignore how much it hurt, trying to ignore the blood sliding down his neck.

“Stiles,” he said, voice strained from the teeth in his throat. “Stiles, it’s me.” He shifted his hands slowly, going for the same action he had back in the Preserve. The teeth sank in further and Derek winced, the crowd going insane beyond the bars, but Derek ignored them. He let his hands fall on Stiles’ thighs and slowly ran them upwards.

The body above him froze, and Derek carefully slid his hands back down, rubbing them soothingly along his thighs. The pressure on his throat was beginning to affect his breathing, but he struggled not to panic, and just kept running his hands up and down Stiles’ legs.

Slowly, much too slowly, the teeth in his neck began to loosen until they finally retreated and Stiles pulled away, staring down at Derek with bloody lips, blue eyes confused. Derek could feel his injury healing, breathing coming back more easily, and he let one hand leave Stiles’ thigh, slowly reaching up for his face. Stiles jerked back, clearly unhappy, but Derek just paused briefly, waited for him to recognize Derek wasn’t going to hurt him, and then finished moving his hand to his cheek, brushing his thumb against his cheekbone.

“I’m right here,” Derek promised. “You’re okay. You’re going to be okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”

He slid his hand back behind Stiles’ neck and pulled him down. Stiles resisted at first, but when Derek turned to bare his throat, blood sticky on his skin, Stiles let himself be pulled down, burying his face in his neck again.

He heard him inhale deeply, and exhale shakily. He did this a few times, the crowd around them murmuring in confusion at what was going on. When Derek heard Stiles’ next inhale stutter, and felt him stiffen, he knew Stiles was back. Derek let out a slow, relieved sigh, closing his eyes, and so, so thankful Peter had triggered him like he had.

Otherwise, Derek wouldn’t have known how to bring him back.

“Derek,” he said, voice barely a whisper.

“It’s okay, I’m okay.” Derek kept Stiles’ face in his neck.

Movement out of his peripheral caught his attention and he shifted his gaze towards it. The Witch had joined Valeris by the edge of the cage, watching them both with interest. She bent down to say something to him, but he shook his head sharply, single eye locked angrily on Derek.

That didn’t matter, though, because something flashed up higher in the stands, and when Derek’s eyes shifted there, he saw someone he recognized, and smiled a little.

“Looks like the cavalry’s here,” he informed Stiles.

Stiles barely had time to say, “What?” before multiple doors slammed open and everyone was shouting.

Derek honestly didn’t know what he’d been expecting when the Pack had told him they had a plan, but it certainly wasn’t this. Realistically, it made sense to go this route, but it was still an incredibly startling surprise.

Without thinking, Derek rolled them over so he was on top of Stiles, shielding him with his body when screaming and gunfire erupted around them. Stiles’ claws bit into his arms and he was beginning to hyperventilate, hanging on to his sanity by a thread, and Derek pressed his forehead to Stiles’.

“Breathe. You’re okay. We’re gonna be okay. I need you to stay in control. Can you do that? We can’t wolf out right now. It’s very important.”

Stiles’ grip tightened, Derek feeling blood sliding along his arms, but at least Stiles’ face was still human. His eyes were blue, but he just clenched them shut, leaning up so he could bury his face in Derek’s neck, breathing him in desperately.

Something slammed into Derek’s back and he snarled, but it didn’t feel like anything to be concerned about. Just a normal bullet, which he hoped nobody had noticed, otherwise he’d have a hell of a time explaining it. It was already going to be a problem explaining away all the blood with no injuries.

One of the doors was forced open and Derek twisted to see Chris hurrying towards them, looking around urgently while holding a gun in both hands. He had a bulletproof vest on, and Derek had to wonder how he’d managed to get invited. Then again, he was the inside man, so it wasn’t like the others would’ve gotten in without him.

“Come on, we need to get you out of here.”

He ducked when a shot just barely missed him, suggesting the good guys weren’t the only ones with guns. Made sense, even if they were full of wolfsbane bullets, all the Hunters in the area had been sporting guns.

Another man raced into the cage, wearing full SWAT gear with FBI emblazoned on the front.

Really, this _was_  the smartest call they ever could’ve made. Trying to come at the ring as a Pack wouldn’t have worked. But, just like the sheriff had threatened all those weeks ago, coming at them from a human angle was a lot easier.

And they had a contact in the FBI.

The agent who entered the cage hurried forward, gun aimed upwards while he checked their surroundings, but there was so much going on it was impossible. His voice was muffled behind a mask, but he motioned for them to hurry up and move out of the open. Then he twisted, raised his rifle, and fired at someone.

Derek found some satisfaction in hearing the scream of agony from the Witch. He hoped she was dead before the night was through, but didn’t stick around to wait and find out. He got to his feet, dragging Stiles up with him, and they hurried towards the open door, Chris and the agent covering their retreat. Derek kicked open the door on the other end, then slammed into a barrier.

“What are you doing? Go!” The agent snarled.

Chris moved forward instantly, breaking the barrier, and led the way. Derek clutched Stiles’ hand, dragging him along with him.

It was fucking pandemonium, both inside and outside the arena area. Hunters that had been guarding all the fighters were firing at agents who’d broken into the prison area. Most of the monsters in there looked human, but Derek hoped none of them attacked the agents.

Really, this was risky. This was so, so risky.

Then again, he supposed it helped that Scott’s father was a senior agent. He wondered how much he’d been told to convince him to storm the place.

Chris didn’t slow on his way to the exit, breaking mountain ash barriers hastily with one foot as he went. When they finally reached the door, the agent told them to clear the area before turning back to return to the fray.

Derek followed Chris outside, where countless vehicles with flashing lights surrounded the building. They were ushered forward hastily by police officers who were crouched behind the open doors of their cars, and once they cleared the line, paramedics were on them instantly.

“I’m fine, we’re fine,” Derek insisted, because this was bad. This was very mad.

“The blood’s not theirs, they’re okay,” Chris shot in, pushing a woman back, who looked offended at being handled in such a manner. “Save it for the ones who need it. These two are fine.”

He managed to usher them past the paramedics and towards the back of the cars. An officer was on their heels, presumably to take their statements, but someone shouted Stiles’ name and he and Derek both turned in that direction.

John practically bowled over two officers telling him to stay back and Stiles ripped his hand from Derek’s, racing to meet his father. They crashed into each other so hard, Derek was positive Stiles broke a few of the sheriff’s bones, but he didn’t seem to even notice. The older man was hugging his son so tightly, one hand buried in his hair while he sobbed into his neck.

Chris’ hand fell on Derek’s shoulder and he turned to look at him, seeing the man’s eyes on the blood on his neck.

“Close call,” Chris commented quietly.

“Yeah,” he agreed, turning back to look at Stiles and his father. “But if he did it, I wouldn’t have stopped him.”

“I’m getting too old for this shit, Derek.”

“You and me both,” Derek muttered, turning to look over his shoulder. One of the officers was still hovering, clearly waiting to see who he could corner first—it’d probably be Derek—but he just kept his gaze on the large building he’d been in.

“Aren’t you only twenty or something?”

“Hilarious,” Derek said dryly, wiping at his neck with his free hand. The blood was sticky and uncomfortable, he wanted to wash it off. “I don’t even remember what twenty feels like.”

Chris laughed and slapped him in the back a few times, squeezing tightly. “You’re gonna be the death of us all, Hale.”

“I hope not,” he muttered. “What time is it?”

“Just after one.”

“Huh.” Derek turned to stare at the building again. “It’s Wednesday.”

“That is it,” Chris agreed. “Why?”

Derek didn’t answer. He just felt like he might learn not to hate Wednesdays so much anymore.

“Stiles!”

The panicked cry had Derek’s head whipping back around, and he saw Stiles on his knees, one hand clutching his chest. He let out a sharp exhale, then looked up at Derek. For a few seconds, he said nothing, and Derek felt his stomach drop, wondering what the fuck had just happened.

But then tears formed in Stiles’ eyes, and when he spoke, he sounded so hopeful that it ached to listen to him.

“She’s gone,” he whispered. “The Lautus Striga. She’s gone.”

_The spells are gone._

* * *

“Hale, you fucking asshole!”

Derek paused in the doorway of the garage, a little startled at Chuck storming over to him. He was incredibly terrifying for a human, and Derek was almost tempted to turn tail and run, but before he could decide whether or not he wanted to do that, Chuck was on him.

The man grabbed at his shoulders, wrenched him forward, and hugged him so tightly Derek was worried he was going to break a few of his own bones.

For a few seconds, Derek had no idea what to do, so it took a while for him to hug the man back.

When Chuck pulled away, he grabbed Derek’s face in both hands, staring him in the eye. “You all right? We saw the news. They said you almost died.”

“They exaggerated.” Derek offered him a smile, patting him lightly in the shoulder. “I’m fine. Few bumps and bruises, but nothing major.”

The rest of the guys had joined them, all of them staring at Derek in awe, like they were scared to touch him in case they hurt him. Which was hilarious, considering Chuck had already crushed him against his chest. A foreign feeling, but not unpleasant.

“You sure you’re okay?” Lloyd asked, giving him a once-over, as if to be sure he wasn’t sporting any injuries that meant he should be at home. “We were worried about you.”

“What _happened_?” Harry demanded.

Chuck turned to cuff him hard across the back of the head. “He went through something traumatic, you malfunctioning asswipe! Don’t ask stupid questions!”

“It’s okay,” Derek insisted with a small laugh. “It’s—I’m fine. Honest.”

The warmth in his chest was unexpected, but not unwelcome. He and the men in the garage had gotten close over the past few years, but he didn’t realize how much he cared about them until now. How much they all meant to each other. They were just as much his Pack as any of the others, even if it was in a different way.

Chuck almost felt like his human Alpha, always reliable, a pillar of strength, knowing what to say at every turn. And the others felt like Packmates. Sure, Alex and Jason were flaky, and Harry could be an idiot sometimes, but he still cared about them, and they still had good times together. And Lloyd. Lloyd was like a brother to him. Always mouthing off at him, calling him ‘boss’ sarcastically, even while honestly treating him like his boss. Helping him out with things he sucked at in the shop, always having his back whenever he needed him.

“Jesus, kid, are you _crying_?” Chuck demanded.

“What? No!” Derek shoved at him lightly, wiping at his face to be sure he _wasn’t_  crying. He wasn’t, but it was a close thing. “I’m fine, honestly. I actually went there on purpose. To help shut it down.”

They were all silent for a moment, and when Chuck spoke again, his voice was the softest Derek had ever heard it. “That’s where he was, wasn’t it? The sheriff’s kid?”

Derek nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. He and Stiles hadn’t seen one another for a few days. After what had happened, Derek figured they could use some space. The two of them were interviewed separately, but Chris stayed with Derek during the interrogation and John stayed with Stiles.

Scott’s father conducted both interviews, and some of the questions he asked made Derek feel like Scott had told him a bit more than anyone else. He kept staring at Derek like he couldn’t believe his eyes, which made it feel a little too much like Agent McCall knew Werewolves existed.

When they’d headed home, Stiles had gone back with John. Chris had driven Derek back to his Camaro—thankfully right where he’d left it—and when they all got back to Beacon Hills, Derek went to the loft instead of the house.

It had been almost four days since that night, and it wasn’t that Derek was avoiding him, it was more that he wanted to give him space. Stiles had lost his mind three times in a short period of time. He was finally free from the Witch’s curses, her death having broken her hold on him. Valeris was in custody, as were countless other Hunters, and a lot of the people involved in the fight club were dead.

All in all, it had been a good win for them. Stiles was still broken, but he’d heal in time. Derek knew he had to work at it on his own for a little bit, and he wasn’t going to rush him.

“Kid’s amazing,” Chuck said. “I don’t know how he can be so strong after spending three years in that hellhole.”

“He’s pretty great,” Derek agreed. “I’m glad he knows it’s over now.”

“Agreed. That being said,” Chuck ended his sentence by cuffing Derek hard across the head. He barely felt it, but he pretended it hurt, letting out a sharp shout and glaring at him before rubbing at the ‘injury.’ “Next time you run off without telling us, and come _back_  without telling us you’re okay, I’ll shove my foot so far up your ass, I’ll be using you as a shoe! Clear?”

“Sorry.” Derek hadn’t even thought about how worried people would be about him. It had been so long since he’d had anyone outside the Pack, but he should’ve thought about Chuck and the guys. He’d raced out of the garage over a week ago after Parrish, and the next they’d heard about him was in the news when the anchors spoke about him helping take the ring down from the inside.

He and Chris were famous in town. Derek hated it, but at least Stiles’ name had been kept out of the stories. He knew most people in town probably figured it out, given he’d been missing so long, returned, and then missing again. Magically Derek Hale and Chris Argent take down an illegal fight club a few days later? Didn’t take a genius to figure out that was what had happened to him.

Chuck wrapped one arm around Derek’s shoulders, grunted that he was going to be the death of him, and dragged him towards the back, barking at the others to get back to work. He let Chuck lead him towards the room that held the Mustang, but slammed on the brakes when a scent hit his nose.

“Ah,” Chuck said. “Figure it out, did you?”

Derek turned to him, startled, because he’d forgotten that Chuck didn’t know he was a Werewolf. So he had no idea that Derek hadn’t figured _anything_  out. He’d just smelled someone familiar, and hadn’t been expecting it.

“He’s been coming around the past two days. Can’t sleep, he says. He likes the Mustang. Says it makes him feel safe. Says it smells like you.”

Stiles was in the room. Derek could hear him, his heart slow and steady, breathing deep and even.

“He’s a good kid. Good with the customers.” Chuck patted Derek’s shoulder lightly. “Wants to learn about cars. Figure maybe he can fix the Mustang up with me, if you’re okay with me taking the distraction back.”

“I think he needs it more than me,” Derek admitted. “We should let him sleep.”

“You should stop running away,” Chuck insisted, shoving him towards the door. “I know it’s hard to let someone in, but maybe you should consider how hard it is being alone. Kid needs you, Hale. Don’t pretend you don’t need him just as much.”

“Want and need are two very different things.”

“So they are,” Chuck agreed. “But just because you want something, doesn’t mean you don’t also need it.”

Derek didn’t have the brain capacity to play this game with Chuck. He just stared at the door, then moved up to it and knocked lightly. The thump he heard on the other side suggested a violent awakening, but he let Stiles compose himself, figure out where he was, calm down before he knocked again.

“Chuck?”

“It’s me,” Derek said. “Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

Derek pushed open the door and stepped into the room, shutting it behind himself. Stiles was sitting up in the back seat of the Mustang, staring at him like he didn’t know what to say.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Derek asked, “How’re you doing?”

“Great, thanks for asking. You?”

“Probably better than you,” he said with a small smile, moving to lean against the car, staring in at him. “Surprised your dad let you out of his sight.”

“He threatened Chuck if anything happened to me. Helps there’s no way in or out of this room except that door.” Stiles frowned. “How did he get the car in here, anyway?”

“Probably in pieces.”

“How’s he going to get it out once it’s done?”

“Who knows?” Derek shrugged and offered him a smile. “Seriously, Stiles. How are you?”

Stiles let out a bitter laugh, raking one hand through his hair. “Fucked up. Really fucked in the head. Still can’t sleep properly, keep worrying I’m going to wolf out, go feral. Waiting for The Master to show back up, for the Lautus Striga to still be alive and make me go back.”

“She’s dead,” Derek promised, bending down so he could see him better. “She’s dead, and you know she is. All her spells are broken.”

“Yeah.” Stiles let out a small laugh, shaking his head and averting his gaze, watching his fingers pick at his nails. “She liked you, you know. Thought you were interesting. She markets interesting.”

Derek hesitated, then pulled open the front door of the Mustang, taking a seat sideways so he could see Stiles.

“How did it happen?” he asked. “How did she get to you?”

For a moment, he didn’t think Stiles was going to answer. Too soon, maybe. Or too hard. Eventually though, he let out a sharp exhale and raked a hand through his hair.

“The Hunters that came into town, the ones chasing the Aswang, you remember? Scott said you and Chris caught up to them after I went missing.”

“I remember,” Derek said.

“They were under her control. Their code was similar to Chris’. They only go after the bad things. They found out about the matches, tried to stop them. The Lautus Striga managed to touch them with her magic. She created the Aswang, a beast that comes back over and over, forcing the Hunters to chase it indefinitely. As they did, they travelled across the country, and every time a new group of Supernaturals met up with them, her magic touched them through the Aswang. It kind of... I don’t know, pulls data? Figures people out and sends it back to her.”

Stiles didn’t continue, but Derek could guess what she’d found in him.

“She found the Nogitsune,” he said softly, remembering the auction tape. ‘Touched by darkness,’ they’d said.

“Yeah,” Stiles confirmed quietly. “The whole Pack was affected, but she doesn’t take a Pack. It’s too difficult to control, because a Pack keeps itself strong together. It also causes problems in the ring. She only ever steals one person, so she surveyed our Pack, and chose me. That night, she called to me, and I walked out of the house and went to her. She can only control Supernatural creatures, or humans touched by her magic. But not if they’re born. It’s why you and dad were never affected when she called to me. Because neither you nor dad were there when the Aswang was around, and you were too strong for her magic to control even if you had been.”

“She said something to me,” Derek said quietly, watching Stiles’ face. “When she had me. After you left with Valeris. She said you were waiting for me. That you insisted I’d come for you. Is that true?”

Stiles’ silence said enough and Derek felt his heart clench in his chest.

A part of him had known it was true. Had known she wouldn’t have just made that up on the spot. He’d suspected she was telling him the truth, he just hadn’t wanted to believe it. A larger part of himself was adamant that Stiles had no idea Derek had even been notified, that there was no way he’d think, out of everyone, that it was _Derek_  who would come for him.

He should’ve known she wasn’t lying. He just hadn’t wanted to believe she was telling the truth.

“I don’t blame you,” Stiles finally said, very quietly. “There was no way for you to know where I was, to find me, help me. I didn’t blame you for not finding me the first time. I wanted you to, but it’s not fair to expect that much from you when you weren’t even in Beacon Hills. Didn’t even know if the others had told you. I guess I just thought if anyone would come for me, it’d be you. And you did, in the end.”

“The second time,” Derek said quietly.

“Both times,” Stiles insisted. “Maybe I got myself out the first time, but you found me in the woods. You took me home, got me back, kept me sane. And the second time, you came for me. It’s funny, because the second time, I wished you hadn’t. All I could think about was what I’d gone through, how much they’d hurt me, and when I saw you get dragged into that room, more than anything, I wanted you to be anywhere else. I didn’t want you to go through the same horrors I did. You’d suffered enough, I didn’t want you to suffer any more than you already had.”

“I couldn’t lose you,” Derek said. “Not again. I wouldn’t have survived it a second time.”

Stiles said nothing, and they sat in silence for a long while, Derek watching Stiles, and the other Werewolf staring down at his hands. There was so much more he had to talk about, as hard as it was going to be. He had to talk about the people he’d hurt, the ones who’d hurt him, what had happened to him while with Valeris, the creatures he’d been forced to kill.

He was himself for now, but every time something happened, it tipped him over the edge back into being feral. He was walking the tight rope, risked losing his balance every second of every day, and they needed to get him back on solid ground before he could move forward any further.

“You need to talk to someone,” Derek said softly.

Stiles let out a bitter laugh. “Oh sure, let me just call up the local psychiatrist and spill all my secrets. Not like that isn’t a one-way ticket to Eichen House.”

“I have a friend,” Derek insisted, thoughts returning to where they’d been weeks prior. “In Germany.”

“That’s a bit far,” Stiles said dryly.

“I’m sure he’d agree to Skype calls. Might even come out here, if I push him enough. He keeps saying he’s going to visit, but he never does. He’s a therapist. He’d be good for you.”

“He like us?”

Derek shook his head. “He’s a Nephilim.”

Stiles stared at him. “Seriously? That’s a thing?”

“Werewolves are fine, but Nephilim aren’t?”

“I just never really thought of Angels as being a thing.” Stiles shrugged.

“Not in the conventional sense. Angels are just like any other Supernatural creature. Just don’t ask him if he can fly, he’s pretty sore about that topic considering his sisters can. He just got healing touch, which he insists isn’t as cool.”

“You have weird friends,” Stiles informed him.

Derek just gave him a look, then pushed himself back to his feet. “I should get to work. I’ve been missing more days than I should lately. You gonna stick around.”

“If I can.”

“Chuck wants to put you to work on the phones. Up for that?”

“It’ll keep me distracted.” Stiles climbed out of the car and Derek opened the door, preceding him out.

Chuck immediately barked that it was about time, and that he was tired of his retirement being interrupted by childish drama. Then, he yelled for Stiles to make himself useful and answers the morons on the phone because he had shit to do so Derek didn’t run his family’s hard work into the ground.

Derek just shook his head and laughed, heading over to one of the work benches.

* * *

Stiles came by the shop every day for two weeks. Derek still stayed at the loft, wanting to give Stiles space, but it was proving to be a fruitless effort since he came and spent the whole day with him in the shop, anyway.

Sometimes he’d disappear with his dad for a while, but usually if his dad was working, he was with Derek at the shop. He tried to spend time with Scott every now and then, but it was clear he still didn’t trust Alphas, even if this one was his best friend.

Scott took it in stride, which was impressive in Derek’s opinion, but he later learned it was because Melissa and the sheriff had sat him down and told him it wasn’t about Scott, it was about Stiles. They would mend that bridge in their own time, for now, Stiles had to focus on fixing himself before he could fix his friendships.

Derek moved back into the house around the same time Dieter arrived from Germany. Peter took off when he found out he was in town, which made sense considering Dieter had tried to kill him many times when they were younger, and would probably be furious to find out Peter had died and come back multiple times.

Dieter was sad to have missed Cora, who headed back home after Stiles’ safe return, but pleased to meet the rest of the Pack. They’d all more or less figured out their living arrangements, and Derek didn’t miss the fact that Stiles’ presence had glued the broken pieces of the Pack back together. Things weren’t perfect, and it would take a long time for them to be even _close_  to perfect, but at least they were all together again.

Dieter was planning on sticking around for a month, since he rarely got days off with his job, and Derek was paying him to help Stiles out anyway. Plus, free room and board since he’d be staying at the loft, hence Derek’s relocation.

He had one meeting with Stiles before calling Derek and telling him he was going to be around for much longer than a month. Derek believed that, and just thanked him for his help. Stiles definitely needed to talk things out, and while most of it was going to be difficult, he’d at least get it all out in the open, which would help him come to terms with what had happened to him.

Stiles slept in Derek’s bed with him once he’d moved back into the house. He didn’t like being alone, and he still woke up from nightmares trying to claw and bite at the closest person to him. Derek didn’t mind, he just wanted to help however he could, and if that meant being close to him and stopping him from eviscerating him on a nightly basis, well, wasn’t like Stiles hadn’t already tried to kill him once before, what were a few more attempts?

Derek was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling and listening to Stiles breathe beside him while thinking about the weird turn his life had taken. He kind of owned a house. He kind of owned a business. He had great friends. He was back in a Pack—albeit reluctantly. He had two close father figures in Chuck and John. He had Stiles.

Some days, he didn’t understand how things had turned out this way. How Stiles going missing had made him put down enough roots that he knew he could never pick up and walk away again. He understood why Stiles had come back after his stint in the FBI. This was a life neither of them could escape from, and now more than ever, they needed each other.

Or wanted each other. According to Chuck, while wanting and needing were two different things, it was still possible to want someone enough to _need_  them.

“Derek?”

He turned his head to look at Stiles, who had his back to him, facing the door. “Yeah?”

Stiles was silent for a moment before saying, “I want to be okay again.”

“You will be,” Derek said, looking back up at the ceiling. “You’ll feel different, but you’ll be okay. Dieter says you’re trying, and that’s the most important thing.”

“How long did it take you?”

Derek turned back to him, letting out a small sigh. “It’s different for me. I only had Laura. We fed off each other’s grief, didn’t come to terms with anything. We weren’t helping each other.”

“So when were you okay again?”

“I don’t remember when I was okay again,” Derek admitted. “But I remember when I started being okay.” He smiled slightly, rolling onto his side so he was facing Stiles’ back. “It was when I walked through the Preserve, and saw two morons trespassing while trying to find an inhaler.”

“Shut up,” Stiles muttered.

“I’m serious. You and Scott... you guys helped make me okay again. It took time after that, but having people who care makes a world of difference. I owe you a lot, Stiles. It’s why I’m here for you, as long as you need me. You want me right here, this is where I’ll be. You need some space, you say the word, and I’ll go back to the loft.”

Stiles went silent for a moment, then he rolled over so they were facing each other, almost nose to nose.

“I’m not okay,” he whispered.

“No, you’re not,” Derek agreed.

“But I will be. One day.”

“Yeah. You really will.”

Stiles hesitated. “Will you wait?”

Derek frowned, not sure he understood. “Wait?”

“I want this. What we had. Or almost had. What we were heading towards. I want it. But I can’t right now. I can’t... _be_  there for you while needing you so much. And I don’t want to taint what we have by relying on you for everything. So will you wait? If it takes me time, will you wait for me to be okay?”

Reaching out one hand, Derek cupped Stiles’ face and smiled, rubbing his thumb along his cheek. “I’m not going anywhere. Even if it takes you five, ten, fifteen years to be okay, I’ll be here. You brought me back here, now you’re stuck with me.”

“What a hardship for me,” Stiles said with a small laugh. “Sorry I ruined our first kiss.”

“You didn’t ruin anything. When you’re okay again, when you want to try this, we can wipe the slate clean. Start over.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” Derek smiled, brushing his thumb against his cheek for a few more seconds before pulling his hand away. “Get some sleep. We have a lot of work to do tomorrow. Kind of regret having Chuck back in the shop.”

“I love that guy.”

“Yeah, me too.” Derek admitted. “Go to sleep.”

It took a while, but Stiles’ breathing eventually evened out and he fell asleep long before Derek did.

He knew it would take time for Stiles to be okay again. Knew that it wasn’t going to be an easy fix, that he would have good days and bad days. That they would fight, and need space, and try and come to terms with their own pasts.

He knew Stiles was going to have to fight and claw his way back to stable ground, to a place where he didn’t jump at every loud noise and immediately go on the defensive. Where he could hang out with a group of people and not lose himself to the dangers of being so surrounded. Where he wouldn’t go feral at the slightest pain, or fear, or any other trigger.

Derek knew it would be hard, and take time, and it did. It was hard, and it did take time. But Stiles was okay again, eventually. He healed, he got himself back on solid ground, eventually.

Derek would never forget that day, when he woke up, and Stiles was _Stiles_  again. Maybe a little different, and maybe harder than he used to be, but it was Stiles. And he’d never forget that day.

It was a Wednesday.

**END.**

**Author's Note:**

> Star Wars (c) George Lucas  
> Hunger Games (c) Suzanne Collins 
> 
> I recognize my style did something weird and shifted halfway through. I couldn't figure out how to fix it, sorry :/  
> Is my year over yet? I want the year to be over....
> 
> Come chill with me on [Tumblr](https://isthatbloodonhisshirt.tumblr.com/).


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